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Glass 

Book 






C 



ON THE RIGHT 
OF THE BRITISH LINE 




F rum a photograph by Aylett. 

Captain Gilbert Nobbs. 



ON THE RIGHT 
OF THE BRITISH LINE 



BY 

CAPTAIN GILBERT NOBBS 

(late l. r. b.) 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1917 



"31 



Copyright, 1917, bt 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 



Published September, 1917 
Reprinted October, October, 1917 







BESIDES THE MAN WHO FIGHTS 
THERE IS THE WOMAN WHO WAITS, AND 
IN HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO HER SILENT HEROISM 
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK 



PREFACE 

This is my first book. It is also my last 
But I have a record to make and a duty to per 
form. I was five weeks on the firing line; fouf 
weeks mourned as dead; and three months a 
prisoner of war. 

I have attempted to make a true record of all 
that happened. The names alone are fictitious 
(all except that of Saniez), for those days were 
too full of stirring events which will long live in 
my memory to need the aid of fiction. If I have 
dwelt at some length upon my experience in 
Germany, it is with the hope that the informa- 
tion may be of interest to those who have rela- 
tives and friends still in the hands of the enemy 
and burn to know the truth. 

I do not deplore the loss of my sight, for I can 

say in all sincerity that I was never happier in 

my life than I am to-day. 

G. N. 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTER PAGE 

I. FOVANT I 

ORDERLY ROOM. OFF TO THE FRONT. 

II. The Silent Heroes 6 

THE WOMAN WHO WAITS — AND SUFFERS IN 
SILENCE. 

III. Departure for the Front g 

WATERLOO STATION. LUNCHEON ARGUMENTS. 
THE BAGGAGE PROBLEM. 

IV. Crossing the Channel 15 

THE DOCK PORTER. A WHIFF OF BOND STREET. 

V. Going up the Line 24 

PERFIDIOUS GANG-PLANKS. d'ARCY STRANDED. 
GUIDES WHO CANNOT GUIDE. A HEATED AR- 
GUMENT. 

VI. Rations 33 

I LEARN TO HATE FOOD. MATHEMATICAL 
PROBLEMS. 

VII. St. Amand 37 

I REPORT AT HEADQUARTERS. THE PROBLEM 
OF VENTILATION. 

VIII. Early Impressions 41 

BILLETS. A STARTLING INCIDENT. REST 
CAMP. 

ix 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

IX. Departure for the Somme 48 

CORBIE. HAPPY VALLEY. PASSING THROUGH 
THE GUNS. 

X. Arrival on the Somme 57 

FEEDING THE GUNS. SEPTIMUS D'ARCY 
ARRIVES. A CURIOUS KIT. 

XI. Death Valley 66 

moving over battle-fields. BAT- 
TALION, LONDON REGIMENT, IN POSSES- 
SION. THE MYSTERY TRENCH. FALFEMONT 
FARM. 

XII. Out in No Man's Land 71 

SUDDEN ORDERS. THE BEGINNING OF A 
GREAT ADVENTURE. DIGGING IN. 

XIII. A Night of Alarm 82 

SEPTIMUS IN A NEW ROLE. SAVING THE 
AMMUNITION. THE LAST CARTRIDGE. 

XIV. Next Morning 87 

A COUNCIL OF WAR. OPERATION ORDERS. 
A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 

XV. The Advance through Leuze Wood . . 91 

NEW OPERATION ORDERS. " AT ANY COST." 
LIKE RATS IN A TRAP. 

XVI. The Attack 101 

A desperate situation, battle for- 
mation. "FOR ENGLAND." 

XVII. At Any Cost no 

OVER THE TOP. MAD, FIGHTING MAD. 
THE FINAL ASSAULT. 

X 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XVIII. Left on the Field 116 

THE MYSTERY OF DEATH. THE SECRET 
CODE. TWO TERRIBLE DAYS. 

XIX. The Jaws of Death 123 

LONELINESS, DARKNESS, AND SILENCE. A 
LAST EFFORT. I PREPARE FOR DEATH. 

XX. At the Mercy of the Hun — and After 130 

A BASIN OF SOUP. HOSPITAL AT ST. 
QUENTIN. THE "open SESAME." 

XXI. Alive 143 

XXII. Blindness 147 

XXIII. The Woman Who Waits 151 

THE TELEGRAPH BOY'S RAT-TAT. KILLED 
IN ACTION. WEEKS OF MOURNING. 

XXIV. Ward 43, Reserve Lazarette 5, Hanover 156 

OCCUPANTS OF THE WARD. CHIVALRY 
OF THE AIR. 

XXV. Saniez 160 

XXVI. Life in Hanover Hospital 166 

HOSPITAL DIET. INTERVIEWED BY A GER- 
MAN DOCTOR. DISCHARGED FROM HOS- 
PITAL. 

XXVII. Observations and Impressions 176 

EMPLOYMENT OF PRISONERS. PARCELS. 
MEN OF MONS. 

XXVIII. Stories of the Heroes of Mons ... 187 

xi 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XXIX. OSNABRUCK 199 

ARRIVAL IN CAMP. THE CANTEEN. DAILY 
ROUTINE. RATIONS. PARCELS. NEWS. 

XXX. Comedy and Drama 215 

1 salute the wall, the story of an 
egg. a novel banquet. joy ride on 
a lorry. the swiss commission. 

XXXI. Free 227 

I BLUFF THE GERMAN SERGEANT. 
AACHEN. TWO BOTTLES OF WINE. ACROSS 
THE FRONTIER. GREAT SCOTT ! I AM 
CHARGED FOR MY OWN DEATH EXPENSES. 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Captain Gilbert Nobbs Frontispiece 

Captain Nobbs after his release from the German 

prison Facing page 164 



ON THE RIGHT 
OF THE BRITISH LINE 



CHAPTER I 
FOVANT 

ORDERLY ROOM. OFF TO THE FRONT 

<<r pHE C. O. wants to see you." 

A "What for?" I asked. 

"I don't know, but he is in the orderly room." 

It was the adjutant who was speaking, and his 
manner led me to think there was something in 
the wind which he did not like to tell me. I left 
the mess, and a few moments later I was standing 
before the C. O. 

' ' I have just received a telegram from the War 
Office ; you are included in the next reinforcements 
for France." 

"I am glad, sir." 

"You've only forty-eight hours' notice. You 
are to report at Southampton at 4. P. M. the day 
after to-morrow." 

"Very good, sir." 

"Well, as your time is so short, you had better 
go home and get things ready. The adjutant 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

will have your papers ready for you within half 
an hour." 

"Very good, sir." 

The C. O. stood up, and in his cordial military 
manner, which seemed to take you straight from 
the orderly room into the mess, held out his hand 
to bid me good-bye. 

There is quite a difference between a C. O. in 
the orderly room and a C. O. in the mess. I 
mean those C. O.'s who are made of the right 
stuff, and our C. O. was certainly one of them. 

In the orderly room his presence keeps you at 
arm's length and makes you feel that you want to 
keep clicking your heels and coming to the salute. 
You are conscious of the terrible crime you would 
commit if you permitted your body to relax from 
the position of attention; your conversational 
powers are restricted; you fancy you have a 
voice at the back of your head, saying: 

"Don't argue, listen; digest, and get out." 

It's a feeling which does not make the orderly 
room a very pleasant place to go to; yet you have 
an instinctive feeling of confidence. 

The same C. O. in the mess, however, is a dif- 
ferent man and creates quite a different atmos- 

2 



FOVANT 

phere. In the orderly room he holds you from 
him; in the mess he pulls you to him. You have 
the feeling that you can sit in an armchair, with 
your feet on the coal-box, and talk to him round 
the corner of your newspaper, like the very ordi- 
nary human being he really is. 

"Well, good-bye, and good luck." We shook 
hands, I came to the salute, and the next moment 
I found myself once more outside the orderly room 
door. 

Have you ever experienced the feeling ? Yes, 
thousands have, for the despatch of reinforcing 
officers to the front in this abrupt manner was 
taking place daily throughout the empire. You 
remember the feeling quite well; amazement at 
its suddenness; eagerness for the adventure; 
the prospect of the home parting; the sudden 
change in the daily routine; the mystery of the 
future — all swirling through your brain in a jum- 
ble of thoughts. 

Then the hasty despatch of telegrams, the ex- 
amination of time-tables, and the feverish packing 
of a kit which has grown to enormous proportions 
and hopelessly defies the regulations for weight. 

An hour later and I had made a quick sale of 
3 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

my bicycle, distributed odds and ends of hut 
furniture which I should no longer need, and was 
sitting in a motor-car, outside the mess, grabbing 
at hands which were outstretched in farewell. 

Those who lived in camp at Fovant can re- 
member what an uninteresting, dreary place it 
seemed at the time, and how we cursed its mo- 
notony. Rows upon rows of uninteresting and 
uninviting looking huts ; the large, barren square ; 
the heart-breaking trudge to the station; the 
little village with the military policeman, who 
stood at the fork of the roads, and whose job 
seemed so easy, while ours seemed so hard; and 
who always seemed so clean and cool, while we 
seemed so hot and dusty. 

The city of Salisbury, our one ray of hope, but 
which was too far to walk to, and too expensive 
to ride to — all these things we used to look upon 
as sufferings which had to be put up with. But 
we can look upon the picture now, and there are 
few of us who can do so without a feeling of 
affection, for there was a spirit of comradeship 
there which links up the dreariness into pleasant 
recollections. 

Now that I have been through the mill I can 
4 



fOVANf 

look back at that parting scene, and as the caf 
whirls away and my brother officers walk back 
into the mess, I fancy I can hear the comment 
of those who had not yet been out and those who 
had: 

"Lucky brute." 

"Poor devil!" 



CHAPTER II 
THE SILENT HEROES 

THE WOMAN WHO WAITS AND SUFFERS IN 

SILENCE 

T WAS soon comfortably settled in a first-class 
compartment and whirling towards Waterloo, 
with the worst ordeal of all still before me: the 
breaking of the news at home and the parting 
while the shock is still fresh. 

Who are the true heroes of the war ? 

Our fighting men are cheered in the streets; 
every newspaper and magazine sings their praise; 
every shop-window reflects their needs ; in theatre, 
pulpit, and workshop their praises are sung. 

But are they the real heroes of the war ? 

Ask the fighting man himself. Speak to him 
of his wife or mother, and the expression on his 
face will answer your question. 

There is no one to sing her praise, no one to 
paint the picture of her deeds; no one to tell of 
that lonely feeling when her hero departs and 
the door is closed behind him. 

6 



THE SILENT HEROES 

The fighting man looks upon his share of the 
war with a light heart. Events come too rapidly 
upon him to feel depressed. He does not feel the 
gnawing hunger of the lonely wait ; the emptiness 
of the world when the parting is over; the empty 
chair at the table, and the rooms made cheerless 
by his absence. 

There is no one to describe the terrors of the 
morning casualty list ; the hourly expectation and 
frozen fear of the telegraph boy's "rat tat," 
bringing some dreadful news. 

There are no crowds to cheer her; no flags or 
trumpets to rouse her enthusiasm and occupy her 
thoughts. No constant activity, thrilling excite- 
ment, desperate encounter. 

Hers is a silent patriotism. She is the true 
hero of the war. And in hundreds of thousands 
of homes throughout the empire, her silent deeds, 
her wonderful fortitude, are making the woman- 
hood of Britain a history which medals will not 
reward, nor scars display. 

The fighting men know it, and when you cheer 
them, they know that there is still one at home 
who deserves your cheers, yet will not hear them; 
and who will seek no greater reward than the 

7 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

safe return of her own hero amid the applause 
which greets their homecoming. 

Fighting men acknowledge it ! And when your 
ears are no longer deafened by the cheers of 
others, take off your caps, fill your lungs, and 
cheer to the echo the real heroes of the war. 

All honour to the woman who waits. 



CHAPTER III 
DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT 

WATERLOO STATION. LUNCHEON ARGUMENTS. 
THE BAGGAGE PROBLEM 

TITATERLOO STATION in war time pre- 
sents a picture of unending interest. Here 
it is that a thousand dramas are acted daily. 
It is one huge scene of bustle and excitement. 
The khaki of the soldier, the blue of the sailor; 
the mother, the wife, the sweetheart; the sad 
partings, the joyful greetings. The troops en- 
training, spick and span in their new war kit; 
the war-worn soldier home on leave, bespattered 
with the soil of France; troops from the near-by 
camps on week-end leave, tumbling out of the 
carriages with the spirits of schoolboys, or look- 
ing for standing-room in the overcrowded com- 
partments on the last train back. 

The scene is inspiring, depressing, historical. 

Hear the noise and babble of the throng; the 
sobs and the cheers; the last look, the last hand- 
shake, the cheery greeting and the boyish laughter 

9 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

— whilst out in the street, London continues its 
unaltered ways, indifferent to the greatest war in 
the world's history reflected within a stone's 
throw, in Waterloo Station. 

The Southampton train was rapidly filling, and 
I just managed to secure a seat and take a last 
look round. It needed a minute before the train 
was due to depart. Every window was filled 
with soldiers, and small groups were standing 
round each carriage door. 

Porters were hurrying backward and forward, 
trying to find seats for late arrivals. Women 
were sobbing, men were talking earnestly. Pres- 
ently the shrill whistle of the guard ; hurried fare- 
wells, spontaneous cheers, and the slowly moving 
train gradually left the station, carrying its human 
freight to an unknown destiny. 

I turned from the window and settled myself 
down in a corner. With me was Lieutenant 
Collins of our regiment, and Second Lieutenants 
Jones and Bailey of the London Regiment, while 
between us was a table laid for lunch. 

"Well!" said Collins, packing his kit which 
had been dangling in a threatening manner from 
the rack, "that's one job over. I'm not sorry 

10 



DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT 

it's over, either. I wish we were coming back 
instead of going. I wouldn't mind getting a 
blighty wound in about a month's time. That 
would suit me down to the ground." 

"Looking for trouble already," said Jones. 

"You don't call that trouble, a nice little 
blighty wound, and then home." 

"Don't be an idiot," I interrupted. "If every 
one felt the same way, who do you think is going 
to carry on the war?" 

"Don't know. Never thought of it. But all 
the same a blighty wound in about a month's 
time will suit me down to the ground." 

The conversation drivelled on in this way for 
a few miles, and finally turned into a heated dis- 
cussion of the wine-list at the back of the menu. 

Luncheon was served, and we were soon heavily 
engaged in a fierce attack on chicken and ham, 
intermingled with joke and arguments. The 
cause of the war and the prospect of its finish. 

"Here's to a safe return," said Bailey, when 
his ginger ale had ceased to erupt its displeasure 
at being released from the bottle. 

"And here's to an early blighty wound," said 
Collins. 

ii 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"Hang it all," said Jones. "Can't you forget 
it?" 

The conversation was bursting out afresh, and 
fortunately did not drift into politics or religion; 
and arguments easily turned to jokes, and jokes 
into a fresh onslaught on the chicken and ham. 

There are some men who can argue best when 
armed with a knife and fork, and a good meal in- 
disputably in their possession. There are others 
whose oratorical powers show greater promise 
when liquid refreshment is within easy grasp. 
In others yet again, the soothing influence of 
the twisted weed develops extraordinary powers. 
And before we arrived at Southampton town 
station the gift of each had full play. 

We soon found ourselves scrambling amongst 
the heap of luggage which had been thrown in 
confusion on to the platform, and commenced an 
anxious search for our kits. 

It is always the same at English railway sta- 
tions, and our cousins from America and Canada 
scorn our system, or rather lack of system, for 
those who travel with baggage in England have 
always the possibility in front of them of a free 
fight to regain their possessions. 

12 



DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT 

There seems to be only one thing to do if you 
are going to travel with a trunk, and that is either 
to paint it in rainbow colours, so that it will stand 
out in striking contrast to the mountainous heap 
of baggage thrown topsyturvy out of the wagon 
on arrival at a terminus. Or, if not provided 
with this forethought of imagination, it is best to 
arrive at the starting station some hours ahead 
of time, and sit down on the platform and study 
the peculiarities of your trunk, its indentations 
and scratchings, and other characteristics, and 
committing all these details securely to your mem- 
ory, so that when you arrive at the other end, 
and you jostle among the crowd gathered around 
the baggage-car, you can grab the collar of a 
porter and frantically shout: "There it is!" as 
it tumbles out of the wagon, to be finally sub- 
merged at the extreme bottom of the heap. 

Unfortunately, all military kit bags are exactly 
the same. It is true you have your name painted 
on the outside, but so has everybody, and when 
fifty or sixty bags come tumbling out, they all 
look exactly alike. 

That is how it was at Southampton town sta- 
tion, but we were all in good spirits, thanks to 

*3 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

the wine-list before mentioned; and as all the 
owners of the kit bags were carrying an uncom- 
fortable amount of ordnance stores on their backs, 
the heap of luggage soon became submerged be- 
neath a still greater heap of energetic and per- 
spiring humanity, until the scene looked net un- 
like a very much disturbed ant-hill. 

But I am exaggerating. Yet, the exaggeration 
of my words, written in a calm moment of thought 
is far less vociferous than the exaggerated words 
used at the time during the frantic endeavour to 
seek one's solitary kit bag, and extricate it in 
such a scramble. 

But at last the four of us, bent double by our 
packs, and freely perspiring in the heat of an 
August day, could be seen rolling, pushing, kick- 
ing, and dragging our worldly belongings off the 
platform towards the station entrance, to seek 
the hospitality of an ancient hack. And then 
we drove away, our kit and our equipments 
stacked high around us at precarious angles, and 
completely submerging the occupants, to the 
delight of the people who stood and watched vs 
in open-mouthed amazement. 



14 



CHAPTER IV 
CROSSING THE CHANNEL 

THE DOCK PORTER. A WHIFF OF BOND STREET 

A RRIVING at the dock we reported to the 
embarkation officer, and were given a pass 
to leave the dock, but bearing the strict injunc- 
tion that we must embark at 6 p. m. 

When you cross to France for the first time you 
are so nervous about missing the boat and run- 
ning the risk of a court-martial, or some other 
such dreadful suggestion, that you hardly dare 
to leave the dock gates, and you are certainly 
waiting at the gang-plank a full fifteen minutes 
before the appointed time. 

But those who are no longer novices to the 
mysterious calculation of those who regulate our 
army traffic, would, on receiving such instruction, 
immediately repair to the best hotel, there to 
regale themselves in a glorified afternoon tea, and 
afterwards seat themselves in the front row at 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

the local Empire; subsequently rolling up at the 
ship's side shortly after 9 o'clock, to find that the 
troop-ship is not due to sail for another hour at 
least. 

Having enjoyed all the pleasure of such disre- 
gard to orders, and arriving in due course at the 
ship's side, I searched around for my baggage 
and for means of getting it on board. I had not 
far to look, for there were a number of soldiers 
standing about, whose evident duty it was to do 
the necessary fatigue work. 

I call them soldiers because they were dressed 
in khaki; but the King's uniform could not dis- 
guise the fact that they were the old-time dock 
porters. There is something about the earnest, 
anxious look of the dock porter, as he tenders you 
his services, which even the martial cut of a mili- 
tary uniform cannot hide. His adopted profes- 
sion in peace, inscribed so deeply in his face and 
bearing, cannot be hidden so easily by the cur- 
tain of war. 

A lance corporal approached me, and, assuring 
me that nothing would go astray that was left 
in his charge, slung my kit over his shoulder with 
professional skill and followed me up the gang- 

16 



CROSSING THE CHANNEL 

plank, placing my belongings carefully down in 
what may once have been the cabin of the ship. 
He crossed his legs, leaned heavily with one arm 
on my baggage, and tipping his cap on the back 
of his head to enable me to see the exact amount 
of perspiration upon his forehead, and breathing 
heavily, so that I might form an exact estimate 
of the fatigue he had undergone, he waited in 
hopeful expectancy. 

I gave him a tip. 

It is against all regulations to tip a soldier; 
but it seemed such a natural thing to do, for his 
khaki uniform could not hide the habit of years. 

He did not salute, but touched his cap. I 
smiled to myself as I watched him depart. He 
was a soldier now; but the uniform could not dis- 
guise the fact that he was still a dock porter. 

We had a splendid crossing, and I shall not 
readily forget the romantic atmosphere of that 
night. 

The sea was calm, and a full moon cast a sil- 
very, shimmering pathway across the water. 

All lights on board the troop-ship were extin- 
guished, and with black smoke belching from the 
funnels, and the vibrations of the engines trem- 

i7 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

bling through the ship, we made our dash across 
the Channel. 

Who but those whose duty it is to perform the 
arduous task of protecting our troop-ships can 
understand and appreciate what it means to live 
the life of the sailor on those comfortless -looking 
destroyers. 

Night after night, week after week, throughout 
the years, tearing frantically up and down, seek- 
ing a hidden foe; daring the treacherous mines; 
safeguarding their trust with apparent disregard 
for their own safety. 

The men who perform such duties are hidden 
heroes; and the safe transportation of our fight- 
ing millions across the seas is a silent tribute of 
their bravery. 

This work goes on, and will go on until the end 
of the war, and the men who perform this great 
task do so with the knowledge that only failure 
can bring their names before the public. 

I met many old friends on board, and several 
new ones. But one man in particular attracted 
my attention, for his appearance seemed so 
strangely out of place with the surroundings. 

Standing near the companionway, and looking 
18 



CROSSING THE CHANNEL 

upon the scene with a bored expression, was a 
young man in the thirties, in a brand-new uni- 
form, with a single star on his shoulder-strap, 
which proclaimed him to the world as a second 
lieutenant. 

He was rather tubby in appearance, with a 
round, chubby face, which was screwed up in a 
frantic effort to retain within its grasp a mon- 
ocle, through which he viewed his fellow beings 
in mute astonishment ; and what is more, he wore 
new kid gloves. It was Septimus D'Arcy, dressed 
in immaculate neatness, radiating the atmosphere 
of Bond Street; indifferent to everybody, yet 
with a horrified look of discomfort at finding him- 
self in such unusual surroundings. 

I had hardly turned from the strange scene 
when Collins caught hold of my arm. 

"Come over here; I want to introduce you to 
a friend of mine, who, I believe, is coming out 
to be attached to us," he said. 

We walked along the deck, and, to my em- 
oarrassment, a few moments later I found myself 
shaking the limp paw of Septimus D'Arcy, glove 
and all. 

I am not quite sure that Septimus, on my in- 
19 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

traduction, did anything more than open his 
mouth, while I raised and lowered his right fore- 
arm. Septimus would have spoken, I am quite 
sure, as the movement of his mouth indicated 
that such was his intention; although the expres- 
sion, or rather lack of expression, on his face, bore 
no proof that his remarks, if uttered, would be 
very interesting. In fact, Septimus needed en- 
couragement. 

"We are having a very pleasant crossing," I 
ventured. 

"Ye-s," he drawled, "but a demned over- 
crowded one — what ? " 

"I suppose so, but troop-ships are always over- 
crowded." 

"I say, though, where does one sleep?" 

I rather suspected that what Septimus really 
wanted to know was whether there was such a 
thing to be had as a private cabin, where he could 
disrobe his tubby figure in seclusion. 

"There seems to be two places to sleep," 
I replied; "either in the boiler-room or on 
deck." 

1 ' On deck ! Rather uncomfortable — what ? ' ' 

"Well not nearly so uncomfortable as it may be 
20 



CROSSING THE CHANNEL 

later. I am just going down to get my kit and 
lay it out on deck," I said. "Hadn't you better 
get yours, too ?" 

I went down below, leaving Septimus with his 
mouth still open, and his round nose wrinkled up 
with an expression of discomfort. But he made 
no move to accept my invitation. 

I unrolled my kit on the deck by the side of a 
long row of officers who were already comfortably 
settled for the night. On either side of each officer 
were his war kit and a life-belt. 

I got into my sleeping-bag, and not feeling very 
sleepy, I lit a cigarette and looked upon my sur- 
roundings. 

The scene was a very inspiring one, and I 
could not help dreaming of the future. What 
had destiny in store for us ? Who would return 
in glory ? And who would be called upon to pay 
the great price — to come back bleeding and dis- 
abled, dependent for future existence upon the 
benevolence of a nation's gratitude ? 

The ship sped onward, carrying its human 
freight. Greater and greater grew the distance 
from loved ones left behind. Nearer and nearer 
we sped towards the unknown future. 

21 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

How many of those lying around, silent com- 
panions of their thoughts, were thinking the 
same as I ? 

What was the future ? Horror, anxiety, success, 
failure, mutilation, death; which was it to be? 
And what a change this was to the times we had 
had in the past. 

We were all civilian soldiers: lawyers, mer- 
chants, bankers, and tradesmen. Fighting was 
not our profession nor desire. 

Whose power was it to transform these lives so 
ruthlessly from the habits of peace to become 
instruments of war ? Whose was the hand which 
plucked us from homes and families, to hurl us 
into the caldron of hell ? Was it the ambition 
of a nation, guided by the despotic direction of a 
tyrant ? 

We knew it and believed it. We could not re- 
main idle to see our homes and families suffering 
the destruction and barbarities inflicted on Bel- 
gium. The fire of hell blazed by the petrol of 
German fury must not be wafted in the direction 
of our beloved country. 

The call had been answered, and these silent 
forms of England's sons were speeding through 

22 



CROSSING THE CHANNEL 

the night in the direction of danger, at the bidding 
of a nation in peril. 

My cigarette was finished, and I was becoming 
sleepy. I turned over to settle myself comfort- 
ably, and turning my eyes in the direction of the 
companionway, I saw the tubby figure of an 
officer standing near the rail, immaculately dressed, 
and in strange contrast to his surroundings. 

It was Septimus D'Arcy, immaculate and in- 
different. Septimus was at war; but Septimus 
was still in Bond Street. 



23 



CHAPTER V 
GOING UP THE LINE 

PERFIDIOUS GANG-PLANKS. D'ARCY STRANDED. 

GUIDES WHO CANNOT GUIDE. 

A HEATED ARGUMENT 

^TEXT morning we were disturbed early, and 
rolled up our kits ready for disembarkation. 

About 7 a. m. we pulled alongside the wharf, 
and a light-hearted, jostling crowd struggled for 
the gang-plank. 

I have not yet been able to find out why gang- 
planks are made so narrow, so that only one per- 
son at a time dare undertake the passage. 

Chaos seemed to prevail. The deck suddenly 
became a struggling mass of humanity, struggling, 
tugging, and dragging at valises and kit bags. 

Officers were manfully shouldering their "march- 
ing order," and struggling with their valises, 
hoping that their turn would come to find a foot- 
ing on the gang-plank. 

The gang-plank was long and narrow, bending 
and squeaking under its burden. There were two 

24 



GOING UP THE LINE 

gang-planks : one to go down and one to come up. 

But we were not sailors, and did not know the 
system; the inevitable result being that those 
going up met those coming down, until they be- 
came an unwieldy medley of men, baggage, pro- 
tests, and apologies. 

Gang-planks at the best of times appear struc- 
tures of absurdity. They either appear to be 
placed at an angle so dangerous that the only 
safe way of getting ashore appears to be to sit 
down and slide. At other times the gang-plank 
has an unhappy knack of sagging in a precarious 
manner as you approach the middle, while a 
couple of sailors hold desperately on to the end 
to prevent its slipping off the dock. 

Here we reported to the landing officer, who 
was making frantic endeavours to create order 
from chaos. 

In circumstances of this kind the best thing to 
do with the landing officer is to keep clear of him. 
So we seized the only hack available and drove 
to one of the leading hotels, which had the repu- 
tation of being popular. 

I am not quite sure if these conveyances are 
called hacks, but the name seems very appro- 

25 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

priate; for carriage seems too dignified a term for 
such dilapidated vehicles. 

We were, however, too glad to get away as 
rapidly as possible from the dusty deck, and it 
was already getting very hot. 

Turning into one of the side streets, we beheld 
the immortal Septimus, looking like one who is 
hopelessly lost in the middle of the Sahara Desert. 

Now Septimus was not a born soldier, and he 
had made no attempt to carry his equipment on 
his back ; neither would it seem right for Septimus 
to carry any greater burden on his podgy form 
than his well-polished Sam Brown. So his equip- 
ment lay on the pavement beside him. He had 
evidently dragged it some little distance, and 
looked upon it as a beastly nuisance, and was 
standing there vainly hoping that a taxi would 
come to his rescue and help him carry the beastly 
thing away. 

We gave Septimus a lift, as he evidently needed 
looking after. 

Arriving at the hotel, we all tumbled into the 
dining-room for breakfast, all except Septimus 
D'Arcy, who made straight for the nearest bar, 
and was last heard of that day tapping a coin 

26 



GOING UP THE LINE 

vigorously on the counter, and with the perspira- 
tion standing in beads on his nose, frantically 
screeching for a whisky and soda. 

Two days later I received a slip of paper which 
warned me that I was to proceed up the line that 
evening. 

I was a senior officer, and would have charge 
of all the troops departing that evening. If you 
have never had that job, take my tip and avoid 
it; for of all the thankless tasks the poor devil 
who suddenly finds himself O. C. train, has the 
most difficult one of all. 

I reported to the camp adjutant, an awfully 
decent sort of chap, and as a farewell gift he placed 
in my hands a pile of documents and several 
sheets of printed instructions. 

"There you are, old chap, you will find every- 
thing there." 

"Why, what is all this about?" said I, holding 
on to the mysterious bundle of papers which he 
thrust into my hands. 

"That is a complete record, in duplicate, of all 
the troops in your charge. When you get to the 
station hand those papers over to the R. T. O." 

"How many men have I charge of?" 
27 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"Rather a big crowd going to-night — 38 
officers and 1,140 other ranks." 

"What regiments do they belong to?" 

"Well, I think you have got men who belong 
to nearly every regiment serving in France. 
There are reinforcement draughts going to various 
units, and numerous men returning from leave. 
You've got English, Scotch, Canadians, and 
Australians. You've got cavalrymen, artillery- 
men, engineers, and infantrymen. Believe me, 
you've got your hands full to-night. 

"You will find a guide at the head of the 
column who knows the way to the station. It's 
a good five miles from here." 

When I got outside I found the column nearly 
a quarter of a mile long, formed up ready to 
march off. 

I gave the order to move to all those within 
reach of my voice, and trusted to the remainder 
to follow on. 

It was quite dark as the long column moved 
slowly down the long boulevards. I had not the 
faintest notion where the station was. Wherever 
I went that long, unwieldy column would slowly 
follow me, and trust blindly to my direction. 

28 



GOING UP THE LINE 

I pinned my faith to the guide, and on we 
went. 

Before we had got half-way it became evident 
that the guide had a very remote idea which was 
the direction to take; and he began to make 
anxious inquiries of passers-by as to the right 
way. 

I was beginning to feel anxious and lose patience. 

' ' What are you fussing about for ? Are you 
taking us the right way?" I demanded. 

"I think so, sir. I don't know." 

"You don't know! But you are the guide, 
aren't you ?" 

"Yes, sir. But I've never been to the station 
before." 

"But you are supposed to be the guide. Do 
you mean to tell me that you are not sure of the 
way?" 

"Not quite, sir. But I am doing my best." 

"Well, you are a fine sort of guide ! Who de- 
tailed you?" 

"The adjutant, sir." 

"Well, did he know you had never been down 
to the station before ?" 

"He never asked me, sir. I was not doing any 
29 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

other duty, so he detailed me to act as your 
guide." 

What staff work ! But it served me right ; 
and we muddled along, and finally, to my great 
relief, we entered the station yard. 

I walked into the R. T. O.'s office and laid my 
pile of papers on his desk. 

The railway transport officer is an individual 
who is prominent in the memory of all those who 
have passed up the line; and many of us have 
reason to remember at least one of them with 
indignation. 

There are two kinds of R. T. O.'s, and you have 
met them both. 

There is the one who has earned his job at the 
front by hard work. He has been through the 
thick of the fighting, and after months in the 
trenches has been sent back to act as R. T. O. at 
the rail-head or the base, to give him a well-earned 
rest beyond the sound of the guns. We have no 
unpleasant memories of him. He is a man; he 
is human; he treats you as a comrade; he is 
helpful and considerate. And you can spot such 
men in a moment. 

But R. T. O. No. 2 carries no sign of war on 
30 



GOING UP THE LINE 

his features. He has never heard the sound of 
guns, and never intends to, if he can help it. 

Look back upon the time when you left the 
base, and you find him prominent in your mem- 
ory. When you are huddled up in your dug- 
out, how you wish he could be transferred to you 
for a tour of duty in the trenches. 

What a delight it would be to send him in his 
immaculate uniform; his highly polished leggings 
and boots, along the muddy communication 
trenches. You know what the feeling is, for 
oftentimes you have said to yourself in those 
lonely night-watches: "How I wish I had him 
here!" 

It is 2 o'clock in the morning; the rain is 
coming down in torrents; danger lurks in every 
fire-bay; the loneliness and the weirdness give 
you the creeps. 

How you wish you could wake him up by dig- 
ging him in the ribs, and telling him that it is 
time to go on his tour of duty up and down those 
clay-sodden trenches at the hour of the night 
when his courage (if he ever had any) would be 
at its lowest. 

What a delight it would be if we only had him 

3i 

/ 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

with us when we take over our trenches, to show 
him that foul-smelling, rat-ridden dugout, and 
tell him to curl himself up to sleep there. 

How sweet would be the joy to see him in his 
pale-coloured breeches, huddled up in a saphead, 
trying to get a little comfort on a cold, raw De- 
cember morning, from a drop of tea in a tin mug, 
well smudged with the wet clay of numerous 
fingers. 



32 



CHAPTER VI 
RATIONS 

I LEARN TO HATE FOOD. MATHEMATICAL 
PROBLEMS 

TX7E arrived at Rouen at 7.30 the following 
morning. I had to report to the R. T. O. 
by 9.30, and in the meantime 3,534 rations had 
to be cut up and distributed on the station plat- 
form among 1,178 officers and men. 

Have you ever had such a problem as that ? 
If not, then avoid it, if it ever comes your way. 

The train was about twice the length of the 
platform, so on arrival it was broken in half, and 
the rear half shunted on to another line. 

The rations were contained in two trucks, at- 
tached to the rear half of the train, so the con- 
tents had to be carried by hand across several 
sets of rails, to the end of the platform. 

I had a fatigue party of 60 men at work, and 
presently a huge quantity of provisions began 
to pile up. There were chests of tea, cases of 

33 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

biscuits, cases of jam, cases of bully beef, sugar, 
and bacon sufficient to fill the warehouse of a 
wholesale provision merchant. 

Three days' rations for 1,178 officers and men, 
in bulk; and 1,178 officers and men began to 
gather around the stack, in hungry expectancy 
of breakfast. 

Now to issue rations to a battalion straight 
from bulk is quite difficult enough, but to issue 
rations from bulk to units of various strengths, 
belonging to over fifty regiments is enough to 
drive any one crazy. 

Each man was entitled to two and one-fourth 
ounces of tea, one-fourth ounce of mustard, two 
and one-fourth pounds of biscuits, three-fourths 
pound of cheese, twelve ounces of bacon, one tin 
of bully beef, nine ounces of jam. 

Each unit had to be dealt with separately, so 
that each unit presented a mathematical problem 
of the most perplexing kind. Each unit sent up 
its fatigue party to draw rations, whilst I and 
several officers who had volunteered to assist me 
made a bold attempt at distribution. 

' ' Come along, first man, what's your regiment ? " 

"Manchester, sir; 59 men." 
34 



RATIONS 

I looked through my volume of papers to check 
his figures. 

' ' Quite right ! Fifty-nine men. ' ' 

Fifty-nine men meant fifty-nine times two and 
one-fourth ounces of tea, one-fourth ounce of 
mustard, two and one-fourth pounds of biscuits, 
three-fourths pound of cheese, twelve ounces of 
bacon, one tin of bully beef, and nine ounces of 
jam. My brain whirls when I think of those 
problems. 

The next unit consisted of o men; the next of 
1; then came a long list of 2's, 5's, and 7's, and 
so on; and in each case the mathematical prob- 
lem had to be worked out; and when the figur- 
ing was finished, the stuff had to be cut up. 

Seventy-nine pounds of cheese for the Man- 
chester; does any one know what seventy-nine 
pounds of cheese looks like ? No one did ; we 
had never seen so much cheese before in our lives. 

"Give him a whole cheese and chance it. 
And now tea; the Manchesters want one hun- 
dred and thirty-two and three-fourths ounces of 
tea. Give him about three handfuls and chance 
it." 

The next party consisted of 2 men. 
35 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"Six ounces of jam for the 19 Canadians; how 
much is that ?" 

"Nearly half a pot." 

"What are you going to put it in ?" 

"Got nothing." 

"Can't have any, then"? 

"Come on, next man." 

When I saw the last of that stack of food it 
was 11.30. We were hungry and tired, and we 
made our way to the nearest hotel, fervently 
hoping that we might never see food in bulk 
again. 



36 



CHAPTER VII 
ST. AMAND 

I REPORT AT HEADQUARTERS. THE PROBLEM 
OF VENTILATION 

W/"E made our way back to the station and 
secured a very luxurious compartment; 
and to my intense relief on this occasion I found 
there was an officer senior to me present, who 
succeeded to the duties of O. C. train. 

The duties of 0. C. train are a new sensation 
to most officers; and it is particularly difficult to 
know just what to do, and how to do it, when 
you have an unorganised body of men made up 
of sundries from every part of the British army. 

Our new 0. C. train evidently felt the difficul- 
ties of his position, and came to me for assistance. 

"Excuse me," he said, "but were you in charge 
of the train last night ?" 

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry to say I was." 

"Well, what does one have to do?" 
37 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"Nothing." 

"Well, but how does one keep order?" 

"One doesn't keep order. But they've given 
me a pile of printed instructions, and I don't see 
how they can possibly be carried out. How can 
I keep order in a train half a mile long with men 
I know nothing about ?" 

He was getting worried. I knew the feeling. 

"Do you want a tip," I said. 

"Yes, if you can give me one." 

"Well, just walk along the train until you find 
a very comfortable compartment marked, '0. C. 
train.' Get inside, lock the door, pull down the 
blinds and go to sleep." 

"Thanks, awfully. I think I'll take that tip." 

"By the way," I shouted after him, "what is 
our destination ?" 

"Haven't the faintest idea." 

"Does anybody know?" 

"I don't think so." 

"Thanks, awfully." 

The train journey was uneventful, save for 
alternatively eating and sleeping, and two days 
later I reported at battalion headquarters. 

The battalion was in rest billets at St. Amand; 
38 



ST. AMAND 

and I was posted as second in command to B 
Company. 

The officers of B Company were just about to 
begin their midday meal when I put in an ap- 
pearance at the company mess. 

Captain George commanded the company. He 
was a splendid type of the righting man of the 
present day — young, active, and clear-cut, boy- 
ish, yet serious. Captain George was made of 
the right stuff, and we became chums on the spot. 

The other officers of the company were Second 
Lieutenant Farman, who had just received his 
commission in the field, Second Lieutenant Chisle- 
hirst, and Second Lieutenant Day. 

They were all splendid fellows, the type you 
meet and take to at once; all as keen as ginger 
when there is serious work to be done; and when 
work is over are as light-hearted as schoolboys. 

The mess consisted of a dilapidated kitchen, 
with a stone floor, and ventilated by the simple 
method of broken windows and a door removed 
from the hinges. 

In those northern farmhouses of France it is 
purely a matter of opinion as to whether ventila- 
tion is really an advantage; for from the yard 

39 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

in front of the house the odour from the refuse 
and manure of the farm, piled up in a heap out- 
side your window, becomes very acute when the 
wind is in the wrong direction, as it usually is. 



40 



CHAPTER VIII 
EARLY IMPRESSIONS 

BILLETS. A STARTLING INCIDENT. REST CAMP 

T SHALL never forget the day I made my first 
inspection of billets. 

While walking through the village street I 
noticed a structure which appeared to be inviting 
some stray breath of wind to cause it to surrender 
its last resistance by collapsing into a heap of 
rubbish. 

Many years ago, in days of prosperity, it had 
served the purpose of a covering for cattle, for 
I believe cattle are not very particular in northern 
France. 

It is quite within reason to suppose that, with 
a view of misleading his cattle into a false sense 
of security, the farmer may have called it a barn. 
It had never been an expensive structure, nor 
did it give any evidence of having ever laid claim 
to architectural beauty. 

But its simplicity of construction was a marvel 
4i 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

of ingenuity. Yes, it was a barn, but who but 
a genius of modern arts would have thought it 
possible to build even a barn by the simple but 
equally economical method of erecting a number 
of props and simply sticking mud between? 

But the stability of the barn was, as might 
reasonably be supposed, subject to "wind and 
weather permitting," and was now sorrowfully 
deploring its advancing years, and anxiously 
waiting an early opportunity to rest its weary 
limbs in a well-earned rest in a shapeless heap 
on the ground that gave it birth. 

How very strange ! Out of the numerous holes 
in the wall I saw familiar faces, while inside a 
score of men were laughing and joking, playing 
cards or lounging about in loose attire, as though 
they were enjoying the freedom and comfort of 
a West End club. 

"But what are you men doing here ?" I asked. 

"This is our billet, sir," answered a lance 
corporal. 

"Your billet ? Do you mean you sleep here ?" 

"Yes, sir, this was allotted to half my platoon." 

"Comfortable?" 

"Yes, sir. Quite a treat after the trenches." 
42 



EARLY IMPRESSIONS 

"A bit draughty, isn't it ?" 

"Yes, sir; but, like everything else, we have 
to get used to it." 

"But can't you find a better place than this, 
and with more room ? You seem to be almost 
on top of each other." 

"There is no other place available. The men 
are quite satisfied, sir." 

I turned away thoughtfully. What magnificent 
chaps ! And yet, when they were in comfortable 
billets at Haywards Heath, or in well-built huts 
at Fovant, they were far more particular; when 
they were recruits and spent their first night in 
the army, they looked with dismay at the pros- 
pect of sleeping on a clean straw mattress in a 
well-built modern English house. 

War. makes men, and hardships breed content ! 

I will pass over our life in the trenches in this 
part of the line, but an incident worth recording 
occurred while we were marching back after five 
days amongst the rats and mud of the trenches 
facing Gommecourt Wood. 

It is interesting, by the way, to watch the 
men leaving the trenches for their rest billets, 
for, in addition to their packs, they carry many 

43 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

an additional article of private belongings to add 
to their comfort during these tedious days of 
duty, and they emerge with all kinds of curious 
packages and extra articles of clothing strapped 
or tied to their equipment. They were covered 
with mud and clay before they left the front-line 
trenches, but the long journey along endless 
communication trenches on their way out, gath- 
ered up an additional covering of clay and mud 
through their bulky attire, until they resembled 
a curious assembly of moving debris. 

But the incident I have referred to occurred 
just as we were approaching a village. 

An observation balloon was being drawn down, 
but when within a hundred feet of the ground 
suddenly broke away and began to rise rapidly 
and drift towards the German lines. 

I halted the men, and we watched in breathless 
suspense the tragedy which was about to take 
place before our eyes. There was some one in 
the basket of the balloon. 

It rose higher and higher. Nothing could save 
it ! Presently the occupant was seen to lean over 
the side and throw out a quantity of books and 
papers. 

44 



EARLY IMPRESSIONS 

Still upward it went, and seemed to reach a 
great height before the next sensation caused us 
to thrill with amazement. 

Something dropped like a stone from the 
basket and then, with a sudden check, a para- 
chute opened, and a man was seen dangling from 
it. When he dropped, the balloon must have 
been many thousand feet in the air, and both 
balloon and parachute continued to drift towards 
the German lines. 

Then a flight of four or five British aeroplanes 
went up and soared around the balloon, evidently 
bent on its destruction. 

As we watched we saw a flash and a puff of 
smoke ! A bomb had struck the balloon, but 
seemed to have no effect. 

The aeroplanes withdrew, and a minute later 
we heard the boom of the anti-aircraft guns. 

The second shot was a dead hit, for we saw a 
flash of fire clean through the centre, a volume of 
blue smoke, and then it buckled in the middle. 
The flame spread, and the blue smoke increased 
in volume until the balloon resembled a curious 
shapeless mass, twisting and turning and shrink- 
ing as it quivered and fell to earth; meantime, 

45 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

anxious eyes were also turned to the parachute, 
which by this time had approached to within a 
few hundred feet or so of the earth. 

Both armies must have watched the spectacle 
in silent wonder, for no shot was fired at the 
falling figure from the German lines. 

It was difficult to tell from where we were just 
where it might fall. It seemed to me from where 
I stood that the odds were in favour of it reaching 
the ground in No Man's Land. 

As it neared the earth it began to sway to and 
fro, in ever-increasing violence, and finally dis- 
appeared from view behind a clump of trees. 
So far as I could observe, it did not seem in any 
way possible for the parachute to have delivered 
its human freight safely to the earth. 

Next day we began a three days' march to a 
village some thirty-eight miles back of the line. 

We were to be rested and fattened for the 
Somme. 

The mention of rest camps to men at the front 
generally raises a smile, for if there is one thing 
more noticeable than anything else during a rest 
period, it is the hard work which has to be done. 

The long days of training, the unlimited fatigue 
46 



EARLY IMPRESSIONS 

work, and the never-ending cleaning of tattered 
uniforms and trench-soiled boots are equalled 
only by the fastidiousness of an Aldershot parade. 



47 



CHAPTER IX 
DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME 

CORBIE. HAPPY VALLEY. PASSING THROUGH 
THE GUNS 

/^\N Sunday, September 2, our so-called rest 
came to an abrupt finish, and we entrained 
for an unknown destination. Destinations are 
always a mystery until the train pulls up with a 
jerk, and peremptory orders are given to get 
out. 

The difference in travelling as a civilian and 
travelling as a soldier is that in the former case 
you choose your time of departure or arrival at 
a convenient hour; while in the latter case the 
most unearthly hour is selected for you. 

We arrived at Corbie at 2 a. m. Not that we 
knew it was Corbie at the time, or cared; and 
even if we had known, we should have been little 
the wiser. Still, I will say this about Corbie, 
that it is pronounced in the way it is spelled, and 

48 



DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME 

that relieves one of a sense of uneasiness. For, 
as a general rule, no matter how you pronounce 
the names of a French town, you will find some 
one with an air of superior knowledge, or gifted 
with a special twist of the tongue, who will find 
a new pronunciation. 

However, we detrained onto the line. The 
night was as black as pitch. Sleepy soldiers, 
struggling with their equipments, dropped out of 
the carriages; and after a great deal of shouting 
we got into some kind of formation, and the long 
column slowly moved off into the night. 

I dropped into position in the rear of the col- 
umn, feeling very tired, and wondering where I 
should find a place to sleep. The long column 
wended its way through narrow streets and along 
cobbled roads, and gradually seemed to melt into 
mysterious doorways under the guiding influence 
of quartermaster sergeants. 

This process went on until I suddenly realised 
that the whole column had disappeared, and I 
was left alone in the streets of Corbie at 3 a. m. 
in a steady downpour of rain, without the faintest 
notion of where I was, or where my billet was. 
I walked a little farther down the street, and 

49 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

being very tired, wet, and sleepy, had almost de- 
cided to lie in the street until the morning, when 
I tumbled across Farman, Chislehirst, and Day 
following the faithful quartermaster-sergeant to 
an unknown billet. 

The billet consisted of a bathroom in one of 
the outbuildings of a large estate. The door of 
the bathroom had been locked, and the water 
had been turned off. However, we scrambled 
through the window. The floor was hard, but 
we had a roof above our heads, and we were all 
soon snoring on the floor, fast asleep. 

Next morning I took a walk around the estate 
and found myself in a lovely orchard. It was de- 
serted. An abundance of most delicious fruit 
met my gaze wherever I went. I wandered up 
and down, picking the apples and the pears, biting 
the fruit and throwing it away. I felt like a bad 
boy in an orchard; but the orchard was deserted 
and the fruit was going to waste ; so if I was loot- 
ing, I consoled myself with the thought that I 
was preventing waste. 

It was about 1.30 in the afternoon, and I had 
just settled myself down in a comfortable seat 
under an apple-tree, and had pulled a Sunday 

50 



DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME 

newspaper out of my pocket ; it was a hot Septem- 
ber day, and I was feeling lazy. 

I was bound for the Somme. There was a 
mysterious air about the place that seemed un- 
natural. These beautiful gardens were deserted, 
but the sound of the guns could be heard in the 
distance. 

I had settled myself comfortably, trying to 
imagine with the aid of the Sunday paper and a 
cigar that I was really sitting in my own gardens, 
when I noticed a man filling his water-bottle. 

"What are you filling your water-bottle for?" 
I asked. 

"We have got orders to parade at 2 o'clock, to 
move off." 

"Good Lord ! Who told you that ?" 

"Captain Wilkie, sir. The orders have just 
come down." 

I never had such a scramble in my life. With 
an appetite oversatisfied with apples; my kit 
spread all over the floor; my company half a 
mile away in all sorts of holes and corners — to 
move out of the village in twenty minutes. 

It's the same old thing in the army; you say 
to yourself it can't be done; but it is done. And 

Si 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

at five minutes past two the whole brigade was 
moving out of Corbie, and was once more facing 
towards the Somme. 

Our destination was in Death Valley; but be- 
fore going into the line we rested a few days in 
Happy Valley. Happy Valley and Death Valley 
— there is a touch of sarcasm about the names, 
but they are, nevertheless, very appropriate. 

Happy Valley is a peaceful spot where we 
would sit contentedly in the afternoon purring at 
our pipes, listening to the sound of the guns; 
watching the shrapnel bursting in the air some 
two or three miles away, and thanking our lucky 
stars that we were watching it from a distance. 
But we were resting. It was a lull before the storm, 
and we were soon to march towards the storm. 

Death Valley was three miles away, and to- 
morrow the storm would break upon us ! We 
were thinking; men everywhere were writing. 
Why were they biting their pencils and thinking 
so hard ? The padre was a busy man. Every- 
thing was so quiet and mysterious : there was no 
joking, no laughing, men were thoughtful and 
pulled hard at their pipes. To-morrow the storm 
would break ! To-morrow ! And what after ? 

52 



DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME 

The following afternoon, after struggling across 
a sea of shell-holes, we arrived at Death Valley 
and halted by Trones Wood. Here hundreds of 
our guns of all sizes were massed, wheel to wheel, 
and row upon row; and every gun was being 
worked as hard as possible. 

A bombardment was taking place. And in 
the midst of all these guns we were halted for two 
hours until our trenches could be located. The 
sight was wonderful. It was impressive. The 
might of Britain was massed and belching forth 
its concentrated fury. 

As darkness came on the roar of the guns was 
accentuated by the flash of the discharge. We 
did not speak, for speaking was out of the ques- 
tion; the noise was too terrific; and we lay on 
the ground silenced by wonder and bewilder- 
ment. 

What was happening over yonder where those 
shells were dropping? What was that droning, 
whistling noise far overhead ? They were the 
big guns: the 15-inch, five miles back; 16-pound- 
ers, 4.9-inch, 6-inch, 9-inch, 12-inch, and 15- 
inch. Guns here, guns there, guns everywhere; 
all belching and flashing; all concentrating in a 

S3 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

stupendous effort to pound some part of the Ger- 
man line into confusion. 

Ammunitions workers in England, and those 
who should be munition workers, come right over 
here; creep with us along the edge of Trones 
Wood, and watch this amazing sight. You 
miners, you tramway men, you boiler-makers ! 
You, who would throw down your tools and 
strike, look upon this sight ! 

This is the voice of England. This is the stu- 
pendous effort which is protecting you. On your 
right, that dark, creepy, silent place, is Trones 
Wood. Look across to your left, those sticks 
showing on the sky-line, across the valley. In 
those woods, churned up in the soil, lie the rot- 
ting bodies of your comrades, your brothers, your 
sons. They have sacrificed all; they have suf- 
fered untold deaths. 

The contrast between that thundering voice of 
England and the silent mystery of those woods 
causes a shudder. Bring out those strikers and 
let them get a glimpse of this and realise their 
danger, and the horrors which will come upon 
them, their wives, their children, their homes, 
if those guns fail. 

54 



DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME 

What is their quarrel to this ? Shall we stop 
those guns for a penny an hour ? Shall we leave 
unprotected those desperate men across the valley, 
who are hanging on tooth and nail to those last 
trenches gained ? Shall we do these things for a 
penny an hour ? Shall we do these things so 
that we can stand up for these so-called rights in 
England ? 

No ! Our mines must be worked ; our boilers 
must be made; and our munition machinery 
must be run to its utmost capacity, or we are 
traitors to those guns and our fighting men; our 
brothers, our own sons, who are depending upon 
the might of England for victory and their lives. 

Throw down your tools, slacken your machin- 
ery, and High Wood and Trones Wood will be- 
come blacker still with the mutilated bodies of a 
thousand men. A penny an hour! You, who 
are being coddled under the protection of these 
guns, what is your quarrel to this ? 

If those desperate fellows on the other side of 
the hill were to leave their tasks, they would be 
called traitors. Yet, when men in England, 
whom these fighters are dependent upon, and 
whose work is just as necessary for the success 

55 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

of the war, throw down their tools, they are only 
called strikers. 

The crime is the same; the punishment should 
be the same. 



56 



CHAPTER X 
ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME 

FEEDING THE GUNS. SEPTIMUS D'ARCY ARRIVES. 
A CURIOUS KIT 



TATE that evening orders came to move into 
the trenches on the far slope of the Valley 
of Death. Trenches here, trenches there, trenches 
everywhere, while we groped around without 
knowing where the trenches led to, or the posi- 
tion of the German lines. 

We spent an anxious night, the uncertainty of 
our position and mystery of those massed guns, 
thundering their wrath into the darkness of the 
night, caused a tension which defied any desire 
to sleep. 

What was the meaning of it all ? What was 
happening over yonder, where the iron of Eng- 
land's anger was falling, bursting, tearing, killing ? 
What was happening over there ? Would we re- 
ceive a similar reply ? The signs were significant : 
we were at last on the Somme ; we were in for it 
with a vengeance. 

57 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

The next morning broke bright and fair, and 
found us still awake with eyes peering anxiously- 
through the rising mist. We were evidently not 
in the front line, but were there on the Somme; 
and that sea of shell-holes which everywhere sur- 
rounded us told its own story of what had been, 
and what was yet to be. 

At about 1 1 o'clock all eyes were turned towards 
High Wood, on the crest of the hill to the left. 
A burst of shells from the enemy's guns told that 
a target had been found. We watched, and pres- 
ently we could faintly see a column slowly moving 
along the road through the wood. 

Three ammunition wagons moved slowly to- 
wards our guns. Crash! A 5.9 fell in front 
of the leading horses; a cloud of dense, black 
smoke arose and blotted the picture from view. 
The smoke cleared, and the little column was still 
moving slowly forward, undisturbed and indiffer- 
ent. Crash ! Crash ! Two more shells burst by 
the side of the second wagon ; the smoke cleared ; 
the horses were startled and giving trouble, but 
once again the defiant little column moved slowly 
forward, indifferent and undismayed. 

We continued to watch the plucky little column, 
58 



ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME 

now obscured by the black smoke of the bursting 
shells, then again emerging from the smoke, heed- 
less of danger. 

Those men were human. How could they 
stand it with such calm and determined indiffer- 
ence ? The answer was the guns : the guns must 
be fed; and British grit and discipline were un- 
conquerable. The army is wonderful. 

At this moment I received a message calling 
me to headquarters, and I at once went to find 
my C. O. 

"Well, had a good rest ?" he asked. 

"Not much, sir." 

"Stuff and nonsense; get your map out." 

I spread my map out on my knees and took a 
note-book out of my pocket. 

The CO. pointed on the map with his pen- 
cil: 

"We are here; the Regiment is there." 

"Front line, sir?" 

"Right bang up in the front line." 

"What are the trenches like, sir?" 

"No time to dig trenches; they're hanging on 
to a few shell-holes, though they may have con- 
nected them up by now. See, there's Combles, 

59 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

and that's Leuze Wood. We shall be on the ex- 
treme right' of the British army. B Company will 
be on the right ; C Company in the centre, and A 
Company on the left with D Company in support. 
Headquarters will be close by Falfemont Farm." 

"Very good, sir." 

"You won't find any farm left; been blown to 
dust. Men are to go in battle order; packs are 
to be parked just outside here, by companies. 
No. 5 platoon will move off at 7 p. m., the re- 
mainder following in succession at fifty yards' 
interval." 

I understood, and turned to go. 

"By the way, I am not sure whether the Ger- 
mans are in that trench or the Battalion, 

London Regiment. Anyhow, that's where we've 
got to be to-night." 

Half an hour later and the men were laying out 
their packs in long rows, by companies. Strange 
sight, all these packs laid out in neat rows. The 
reason did not need explaining. There was work 
at the other end of that Valley of Death; there 
lay the pit of the Great Adventure. Perhaps to- 
night we should look into it; but how many 
would come back to claim their packs. 

60 



ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME 

We are in the soup with a vengeance ! Well, 
who cares ? 

Early that afternoon I went to my dugout, and 
was just trying to get a little rest, when I was 
disturbed by a voice outside, which sounded 
strangely familiar. 

"Sergeant, excuse me, but is this the beastly 
hole where B Company is to be found ?" 

"Yes, sir, this is B Company's line." 

"Ton me word, extraordinary place ! Demned 
hot; walked nearly five miles. Where's the cap- 
tain?" 

"In his dugout, sir, near that shell-hole." 

"I've got to report to him; will you tell him 
I'm here?" 

"Hadn't you better go to him, sir?" 

"Oh ! Is that the thing to do ?" 

At that moment, unable to restrain my curi- 
osity, I came out of my dugout, and there, sure 
enough, was none other than the irresistible pat- 
tern of Bond Street, Septimus D'Arcy, by all that 
was wonderful ! 

There he was, with his monocle riveted in his 
right eye, between the frown of his eyebrow and 
the chubby fatness of his cheek, with the bored 

61 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

expression of one who saw no reason for the neces- 
sity of the fatigue which caused the undignified 
beads of perspiration to assemble on an otherwise 
unruffled countenance. A pair of kid gloves, but- 
toned together, were hanging from the belt of his 
Sam Brown, and four inches of a blue-bordered 
silk handkerchief dangled from his sleeve. As 
he approached he half carried on his arm and half 
dragged along the ground, the burden that was 
known as his full marching order. 

"Hello, Septimus!" I said, as he came along, 
dragging his things behind him. 

"Ah! Hellow! Well, I'm demned! Never 
expected to find you here; awfully glad to meet 
you again." 

"What are you doing here?" 

"I'll be demned if I know ! Uninteresting spot 
this — what?" 

"Well, what have you come here for ?" 

"Nothing much. I saw a fellow in that big 
dugout in the valley, and he told me to report 
to you. The fact is, you know, you are attached 
to me, or I'm attached to you, or something of 
that sort." 

"Well, you are not in Havre now; there are 
62 



ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME 

snipers about, and if you stand up there like that, 
you'll get hit." 

"You don't mean to say so; that seems per- 
fectly safe." 

"Well, get down, and don't be a fool." 

He carefully got down into the trench, leaving 
his equipment behind, probably hoping it would 
get lost, and we entered the dugout. 

"I must tell you, captain, I am horribly fatigued. 
I came through the guns; very interesting and 
all that, but it's made my head ache." 

"Have some water. It's rather muddy, but 
better than nothing these days." 

"No, thanks; doctor warned me against drink- 
ing dirty water; dysentery and all that, don't you 
know. Any whisky and soda ? " 

"Look here, Septimus, now you are here, you 
must drop that nonsense." 

"All right, old thing. I rather doubted the 
soda, but thank Heaven I've got a flask; a sort of 
emergency ration. Help yourself and lets drink 
it neat." 

"How long have you been in the army, Septi- 
mus?" 

"Three months. Why?" 
63 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"Like it?" 

"Not bad. Saluting seems rather absurd; but 
it seems to please some. I longed to come out; 
thought it would be interesting and all that sort 
of thing. But so far I've had nothing to do but 
get from place to place, carrying a beastly load 
with me." 

"Probably your own fault. I have never seen 
a pack or haversack crammed so full. What have 
you brought with you ?" 

"Necessaries; but not half what I shall need. 
Has my kit arrived?" 

"My dear chap, you will never see your kit 
up here; and what is more, you will have to leave 
most of those things you have brought with you 
behind, before you go up the front line. Dump 
your things out here, and I will tell you what to 
take." 

We emptied his pack and haversack. I have 
never in all my life seen such a lot of rubbish in 
the war kit of a soldier. There seemed to be 
nothing there he would really need ; but a curious 
mixture of strange articles which would fill a 
fancy bazaar. There were hair-brushes with 
ebony backs and silver monograms, silk hand- 

64 



ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME 

kerchiefs with fancy borders, a pinky tooth-paste, 
oozing out of a leaden tube; and crushed between 
a comb and a pair of silk socks, a large bottle of 
reddish tooth-wash, sufficient to last him three 
years; and half of which had leaked through the 
cork to the destruction of about a dozen silk 
handkerchiefs, spotted and bordered in fanciful 
shades. There was a box of cigars, a heavy china 
pot of massage-cream, a pot of hair-pomade, a 
leather writing-case, a large ivory-backed mirror, 
which had lost its usefulness for ever, a bottle of 
fountain-pen ink, two suits of silk pajamas, one 
striped with pink and the other blue, a huge bath- 
towel, a case containing seven razors, one for each 
day in the week, and a sponge as big as his head. 
Poor Septimus! in his simplicity and ignorance, 
for the first time in his life he had packed his own 
kit. 



65 



CHAPTER XI 

DEATH VALLEY 

MOVING OVER BATTLE-FIELDS. BATTALION, 

LONDON REGIMENT, IN POSSESSION. THE 
MYSTERY TRENCH. FALFEMONT FARM 

r I A HE final preparations completed, the first 
platoon began to move off; other platoons 
followed at intervals, the column slowly wending 
its way through the Valley of Death to its mys- 
terious destination. 

We seemed to be going into the unknown; the 
air was full of mystery ; it was uncanny, unnatural. 
We were moving over battle-fields. The ground 
was a mass of shell-holes; progress could only be 
made by walking in single file along a narrow 
footpath, which twisted in tortuous persistency 
between the shell-holes, causing innumerable 
halts and starts, until the column tailed off into 
an endless line of shadowy figures. 

Here and there the men became lost to view in 
66 



DEATH VALLEY 

some gun-ridden cavity; whilst there again they 
appeared silhouetted against the moonlit sky, as 
man by man they appeared and disappeared from 
view over a rise in the ground. 

Those who had fallen in the desperate struggle 
of the previous week lay yet unburied. Friend 
and foe alike shared the shelter of the heavens, 
clutching at the soil of France in the agonies of 
death. There are times when the sight of death 
excuses the quivering step and the irrepressible 
sob from the hearts of those who pass onward to 
brave a similar fate. 

The Valley of Death was a silent tomb of the 
wrath of nations, that long, winding Valley of 
Death, where the bodies of friend and foe lay side 
by side, or clutched in a desperate embrace, 
marked the line where the fury of nations found 
its expression, like the scar of a devil's ven- 
geance. 

As I looked on the bodies of the dead, twisted 
and mutilated, limbless and torn, some half buried 
in debris — here and there lying doubled in un- 
natural positions, while others yet, seemed to 
be clutching at some mortal wound — I felt like 
one who fearfully treads into the vortex of Dante's 

67 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

inferno. Yes, this was the devil's own hell, but 
a hell far more dreadful than I had ever imagined 
it to be. 

After a tiring, disheartening trudge, we found 
the spot we were to occupy, and, to our intense 

relief, the Battalion, London Regiment, were 

in possession. 

After the usual formalities of the relieving and 
taking over of the line of shell-holes which marked 
the position, I stopped for a final word with one 
of the officers: 

"How many casualties?" I asked. 

"About fifty in two days — bit tough, eh?" 

"Been attacked, then?" 

"No; shelled like billyho. They've got the 
range nicely." 

"Where's theBoche?" 

"Don't quite know; somewhere in front. 
About eight hundred yards away there's a trench 
which forms three sides of a square, each side 
about three hundred yards, with the open side 
resting on Leuze Wood, and the lower end ex- 
tending into the wood." 

"Fritz there?" 

"In the upper part, yes; but the lower part is 
68 



DEATH VALLEY 

a bit of a mystery. The part that extends into 

the wood the Regiment are holding; but the 

rest of it the Boche seems to have. At least, 
that's what I think. Awkward position ! Well, 
cheer oh !" 

After a sleepless night I anxiously waited the 
rising mist to take a view of my surroundings. 
There, on the right, was a high table-land, with a 
frowning bluff overlooking the town of Combos, 
which slowly emerged, house by house, from the 
rising mist. 

In the trench the right man of my company 
was vigorously shaking the hand of a French sol- 
dier, who marked the left of the French army. 

There, straight in front, could be faintly seen 
the trench formed in the shape of a square, and 
left of it Leuze Wood. But what were those 
peculiar stumps to the left of our trenches ? They 
looked like the remains of a copse which had been 
shelled until only the stumps of a few trees re- 
mained. And where was Falfemont Farm ? There 
was no sign of it anywhere. I was not sure of 
my position on the map; it was puzzling. 

I went over to consult the French officer on 
my right : 

69 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"Morning, monsieur," I said, approaching a 
smart young officer. 

"Ah! Good morning; you relieve the 

Battalion, London Regiment, already — yes?" 

"Yes; last night. I came to ask you what 
those stumps are over there ; they are not marked 
on the map. Do you happen to know ?" 

"Ah! Oui; zat is Falfemont Farm. Nothing 
left now ; very bad place that farm. Zay say one 
whole brigade of infantry was lost in storming 
that farm. Yes, nasty place, that farm, M. le 
Capitaine." 

I went back to my trench. I didn't like the 
look of things. If Falfemont Farm got blown to 
smithereens like that, what chance did I stand ? 
Whew ! I was getting the wind up. 



70 



CHAPTER XII 

OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 

SUDDEN ORDERS. THE BEGINNING OF A 
GREAT ADVENTURE. DIGGING IN 

A FTER a strenuous day's work, during which 
I had only time to take a mouthful of bread 
and cheese, which I carried in my pocket, I espied 
an orderly making his way towards me. 

"The C. 0. sent me, sir; you're wanted at 
once." 

"Oh! any news?" 

" I think we are in for a binge, sir." 

"Which is the way to headquarters?" 

"About two hundred yards back. Follow that 
narrow little track which winds around the shell- 
holes, and you can't miss it. Don't leave the 
track, or you will lose your way." 

On arriving at H. Q. I found a small group of 
officers bending anxiously over a map. The 
C. O. turned to me as I approached: 

"Ah! There you are. Get your books out, 
71 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

and take down your orders — ready ! You are to 
take command of B Company. Well, now, here's 
our position; there's Combles and there's Leuze 
Wood. Take your company out into 'No Man's 
Land,' and extend along a line facing half right 
to our present position, with your left resting on 
the wood. C Company will be in the wood on 
your left; and A Company will be on your right 
— understand?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"You'll dig in to-night, and to-morrow we are 
going to take that trench that's formed like a 
square, to prepare the way for a frontal attack 
on Combles by the French. You'll take the up- 
per portion of that perpendicular trench, passing 
the wood on your left." 

"Then, I shall have to cross over the lower 
trench; isn't that occupied, sir?" 

"The battalion bombers will clear that out for 
you during the night." 

"When is zero hour, sir?" 

"Don't know; I've told you all I know at 
present. Take ten flares, and send up two when 
you arrive at your objective, and send up another 
two at 6 o'clock the following morning." 

72 



OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 

"What about ammunition and water, sir?" 

"The water you've already got is supposed to 
last forty-eight hours. I don't know about am- 
munition; I think there's an ammunition dump 
in the wood, but I will find that out and let you 
know. All right; it's dark enough now." 

Sch ! — Crash ! — Zug ! A 5.9 burst on the 
parapet a few yards away. The thud of an awky 
bit was felt in our midst, and the sergeant- 
major jumped up, holding his foot. The C. O. 
looked up without turning a hair: 

"Any one hurt ?" he asked. 

"Only my boots, sir," replied the sergeant- 
major, suspiciously feeling his heel. 

I took my departure and began to grope around 
in the dark in search of the narrow track which 
would guide me back to my company. I searched 
for about ten minutes, but in vain, and I became 
for a while hopelessly lost in a mass of shell-holes. 
I knew the direction roughly, but direction was 
of little use in that wild confusion of broken 
ground and debris. 

What if I should be lost all night? What 
would they think ? It would be put down to 
funk. A cold perspiration came over me. I felt 

73 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

an overwhelming sense of loneliness amidst that 
gruesome scene of destruction; and to crown it 
all, a feeling of responsibility and anxiety which 
made the craters seem deeper as I frantically 
scrambled out of one and into another. At last, 
to my intense relief, I found the little footpath 
and reached my trench safely. 

Time was getting on. I gave orders for the 
men to dress and lie flat on the parados, ready for 
the word to move. When all preparations were 
completed, and bombs, picks, and shovels issued 
to each man, I signalled the advance, and with a 
few scouts in front and on the flanks, we slowly 
moved in single file into the unknown. 

It was a pitch-black night, intensified by a 
slight fog, and I took my direction by compass 
bearing, wondering all the while if it would lead 
me right. 

The men marched in silence. Nothing could 
be heard but the muffled footsteps over the soft 
ground, and occasional jingling of a spade or pick 
against the butt of a rifle. 

Distance became exaggerated, and fifty paces 
seemed like five hundred, until I began to get a 
horrible fear that my compass had misled me, 

74 



OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 

and that countless German eyes were watching 
me leading my men into the midst of their guns. 
Where were we going ? When would we get 
back, and how many of us ? Call it funk or what 
you like, but whatever it is, it's a devilishly 
creepy feeling; and when at last I found myself 
close to the edge of the wood, I felt as if I were 
arriving home. 

But the real job had not yet begun. I signalled 
the halt to the leading file, and passed the word 
to turn to the right and extend two paces to the 
right and lie down. I next ordered a sentry 
group, consisting of one section to be sent out by 
each platoon to occupy shell-holes fifty yards in 
front as a protection against surprise. 

The platoon on the left was to bend its flank 
to face the edge of the wood, and get in touch 
with C Company in the wood; while the platoon 
on the right secured connection with A Company. 
One Lewis-gun section took up position on the left 
flank at the corner of the wood, whilst the other 
Lewis gun protected my right. 

These precautions against surprise being com- 
pleted, I ordered the men to dig for all they were 
worth; rifles with bayonets fixed, and magazines 

75 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

charged to be placed within arm's reach at the 
back of the trench, the earth to be thrown in 
front until the parapet became bullet-proof. 

I spotted one man leaning on his shovel, and 
looking vacantly into the darkness. 

"Dig, man! Don't stand looking about you," 
I whispered hoarsely. 

"The ground's hard, sir; it's all chalk here." 

"Don't be a fool! Dig! I tell you we may 
be discovered any minute. If we get shelled 
you'll be glad enough of a hole to lie in." 

Passing along the line, I overheard two men 
talking in an undertone: 

"How do you like it, Timmy?" 

"Fed to the teeth. It's all very well for the 
skipper to say : ' Dig like hell ! ' — Seems quiet 
enough here." 

' ' Heard about Bill ? Went balmy just after 
we started. He began by laughing and crying; 
he was as mad as a hatter. He nearly put the 
wind up us in the rear. The skipper sent him 
back with a couple of stretcher-bearers." 

' ' Poor old Bill, hard luck. Thought he couldn't 
stand much. Got any water ? " 

"Not a drop; I'm as dry as a brick." 
76 



OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 

"Shut up; there's the skipper standing there." 

The conversation stopped; but the latter part 
worried me not a little. Water-bottle empty, 
good Lord ! and no more water for forty-eight 
hours. 

All of a sudden the sky was illuminated. Half 
a dozen Very lights went up in rapid succession: 
we were discovered ! 

A moment or two later from two different 
points, three reds and a green light went up, fall- 
ing in our direction. Every man stopped work 
and looked up in amazement. We were in for 
it; we wanted no telling. 

"Dig like hell !" I whispered hoarsely, hurrying 
along the line of wondering men. 

But they wanted no urging this time, and every 
man set to work with feverish energy. 

Then the bombardment commenced, and in a 
few minutes the air was filled with whistling 
shells, screeching through the night and making 
the darkness hideous. 

We were only a foot below the surface of the 
ground. Once again I hastened along the line: 

"Dig like hell!" 

Lights were going up in rapid succession, and 
77 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

the German line whence they came appeared 
only a couple of hundred yards in front, and 
seemed to form a semicircle around my left flank. 

Clack ! Clack ! Clack ! What was that ? — 
Rifles ! My sentry groups were firing. Again 
the rattle of rifles, this time all along the line of 
sentry groups. 

"Stand to!" 

Every man seized his rifle and crouched in the 
pit he had dug and faced his front. We waited: 
the bombardment had stopped, and the crack of 
the rifles alone disturbed the night. 

I drew my revolver and waited in breathless 
suspense for the sudden rush which seemed im- 
minent. 

Were our preparations to be nipped in the bud, 
after all ? Would it be a sudden rush ; a desperate 
hand-to-hand fight ? — and then, what then ? 

The minutes passed like hours in an agony of 
suspense, and then, unable to bear the strain any 
longer, I crept cautiously forward into the inky 
darkness towards one of the sentry groups to 
find out what was amiss. 

"Halt! Who is there?" 

"O. C, B Company." 
78 



OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 

"Advance!" 

"What's up?" I asked, sliding into the shell- 
hole beside the corporal. 

"There seemed to be a patrol moving about in 
front; it's all quiet now, sir." 

"All right; double the sentries for the next 
hour." 

I returned to the line and ordered the men to 
continue digging. 

The bombardment continued, but by and by 
we began to grow accustomed to the din. Sev- 
eral casualties occurred; but still the work of 
digging in continued. 

Time was getting on, and I must make my 
plans for to-morrow's attack. 

A few minutes later I chanced to notice a figure 
sitting leisurely in a shell-hole. 

"Why, Septimus, is that you?" 

' ' I think so ; I say, I think so. Unearthly row ; 
devilishly dangerous place, this — what?" 

"But what are you doing in there ?" 

"I was just coming to talk to you about am- 
munition. A shell burst, and my face is simply 
covered with dust. Has the ammunition arrived 
yet?" 

79 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"No; there's an ammunition dump in the wood 
somewhere." 

"Like me to go and find it ?" 

I looked at him in amazement. It wasn't funk 
then, that made him seek safety in that shell-hole. 
Was it possible that dear old Septimus, this bland, 
indifferent tubby, blase old thing of Bond Street, 
was anxious to go into that creepy, mysterious 
wood to look for ammunition ? 

"All right; take a corporal and 12 men, and 
bring back six boxes. Don't take unnecessary 
risks; we shall need every man to-morrow." 

Septimus sprang out of the shell-hole, saluted 
in the most correct manner — something quite 
new for him — and disappeared in the darkness. 

This was a new side of Septimus's character 
which had not shown itself before. Only the 
stoutest heart would have chosen to wander about 
in that wood at midnight, with enemy patrols 
lurking about. Septimus was a man, after all. 

Five minutes later he passed me, leading his 
men. He gripped my hand as he passed, with 
the remark: "Well ! Ta-ta, old thing." 

"Cheer oh!" 

And Septimus was gone. We may call men 
80 



OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 

fops, simple vacant fools, or what we like; but 
the war has proved over and over again that the 
man within the man is merely disguised by his 
outer covering. Many a Bond Street Algy, or 
ballroom idol has proved amidst the terrors of 
war that the artificial covering of a peace-time 
habit is but skin-deep ; and the real man is under- 
neath. 



81 



CHAPTER XIII 
A NIGHT OF ALARM 

SEPTIMUS IN A NEW R6LE. SAVING THE 
AMMUNITION. THE LAST CARTRIDGE 

TUST then a movement in the rear of my posi- 
tion attracted my attention. A number of 
men were approaching; then halting, they sat on 
the ground, while two figures continued on 
towards me. 

They were Second Lieutenant Wade, the in- 
trepid scout officer, and Second Lieutenant Brady, 
in command of the battalion bombers. It was 
Brady who spoke first: 

"Hullo! Getting peppered pretty hot, aren't 
you?" 

"Rather lively ! Where are you off to ?" 

"I've got orders to bomb out that mysterious 
trench you've heard so much about, in order to 
clear the way for your attack to-morrow. I'm 
going in front of your line and along the edge of 
the wood." 

82 



A NIGHT OF ALARM 

I despatched a runner to warn the sentry- 
groups, and presently the little group of bombers 
disappeared round the edge of the wood into the 
darkness on their adventurous errand, the success 
of which would mean so much to me on the 
morrow. 

All this time the work of digging is continued 
with unabated anxiety, shells dropping around 
unceasingly. 

All of a sudden I was startled by a rattle of 
musketry in the direction of the wood. There 
was silence; then several more shots followed by 
a rushing, tearing noise, and yells. 

Almost at the same moment the ammunition 
party emerged breathlessly from the wood. 

I ran forward to where the men were dropping 
the ammunition boxes on the ground, and falling 
exhausted. For a moment or two they were too 
breathless to speak. I counted the men: there 
were 12 of them, and the six boxes of ammuni- 
tion had safely arrived. 

But where were Septimus and the corporal ? 
All was silent in the wood. I turned to the near- 
est man who was by this time sitting up, hold- 
ing his head in his hands. 

83 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"Where is Mr. D'Arcy and Corporal Brown?" 
I asked. 

"God knows, sir! They stayed to cover our 
retirement." 

"What happened?" 

"We found the ammunition dump, sir, and 
were just beginning to move the boxes when we 
heard some one moving. We grabbed our rifles 
and waited. There seemed to be quite a number 
crawling around us. Mr. D'Arcy ordered us to 
retire at once, and get the ammunition away at 
any cost ; he said he would stay behind and cover 
our retreat, and Corporal Brown offered to stay 
with him. We hadn't got far, sir, when they 
opened fire; bullets hit the trees and whizzed 
over our heads. Then we heard a rush and some 
yells. I distinctly heard something in German, 
and Mr. D'Arcy's voice shout back: 'Kamarade 
be damned ! ' Then there was a scuffle ; that's all 
I know." 

My heart beat wildly as I listened to this story. 
Good God ! what did that silence mean ? There 
was no further time to be lost. 

I ordered a relief party and led the way into 
the wood. There was not a sound to be heard 

84 



A NIGHT OF ALARM 

as we crept forward on our hands and knees 
towards the spot where the ammunition had been 
found. 

What was that ? We listened breathlessly, and 
again we heard a low groan almost in our midst. 
There was a shell-hole just in front, and crawling 
along on all fours, I found Septimus D'Arcy, 
wounded and helpless, with his left leg almost 
blown away, and bleeding from the head. 

"What's up, D'Arcy? What has happened?" 
I whispered hoarsely. 

A faint smile of recognition came over his 
pale face as I supported him in my arms. His 
words came painfully: 

"The ammunition — is it — safe ?" 
"Yes, quite safe." 

"But what happened after they left?" 
"I stayed behind — with the corporal — to 
protect their retirement. We opened rapid fire 
— to draw German fire on to us. I saw six creep- 
ing forward. They called to us — to surrender. 
I refused — demn them ! They threw bombs — 
killed the corporal — dirty dogs ! smashed my 
leg — nothing much. I picked off three — with 
my revolver — never used beastly thing before; 

85 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

two bolted — last one jumped at me — with 
bayonet. That's him there — just got him — 
last cartridge." 

Septimus was lying heavily on my arms. 
Nothing could be done for him; I saw the end 
was at hand. 

"Good-bye, captain ! Knew you'd come. Don't 
know much about soldiering — good sport ; shan't 
have to carry that — demned pack again." 

A placid smile came over his chubby face as 
he gasped out the last words. His monocle was 
still firmly fixed between his fat cheek and his 
eyebrow. Once more he seemed indifferent to 
his surroundings. 

In front of him, the silent evidence of his plucky 
stand, were the dead bodies of four Germans. 
By his side lay a revolver. I picked up and ex- 
amined the chamber; the last cartridge had been 
fired ! 

The men had gathered around ; their caps were 
off. Septimus seemed to be looking up smilingly 
into their faces. 

Septimus was dead ! But Septimus was still 
in Bond Street ! 



86 



CHAPTER XIV 

NEXT MORNING 

A COUNCIL OF WAR. OPERATION ORDERS. 
A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 

HpHREE A. M. Heavy shell-fire still contin- 
ues. I have just ordered the men to cease 
work and take rest. Trench is about two feet 
deep; men are dead beat. 

4 a. m. Have just received three pages of 
operation orders. We are to attack at 4.45 p. m. 
in four ways, starting from the trenches we have 
been digging, and advancing diagonally from the 
corner of the wood across the open; passing over 
the mystery trench and taking the central trench. 

I have only a vague idea at present where that 
is. Am fervently hoping that the battalion 
bombers have solved the mystery trench and 
cleared it. No news from them yet. God knows 
what has been happening there during the night. 

5 a. m. Have just held a council of war with 
my officers and N. C. O.'s, and explained in detail 
my plans for the attack. Very impressive sight, 

87 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

seeing them all crouching around me in a shell- 
hole, with shells bursting around us, while they 
listened intently to my orders. 

"Each officer is to carry his papers in lower 
right-hand hip pocket ; and if he fails, the nearest 
man is to search the pocket and hand the con- 
tents on to the next senior. I intend to attack 
in the following order: 

First wave No. 5 Platoon 
Second No. 6 

Third No. 7 and 

Fourth wave No. 8 " 

Eighty yards interval between each wave. Bomb- 
ing sections of Nos. 5 and 7 to be on the right, 
and Nos. 6 and 8 on the left of their respective 
platoons. 

"No. 1 Lewis Gun to be on the right of the 
second wave; No. 2 Lewis Gun to be on the left 
of the fourth wave. 

"Two runners from each platoon to report to 
me five minutes before zero hour. My position, 
accompanied by the runners, will be between the 
third and fourth wave. 

88 



NEXT MORNING 

"On arrival at objective Lewis Gunners to 
establish strong points, assisted by bombers at 
each end of objective. Each man to carry two 
hundreds rounds of ammunition and three bombs; 
also three sand-bags in his belt, and a pick or 
shovel tucked through his belt behind. Bombers 
to carry each a sack, containing twelve bombs, 
but no tools." 

Strange warfare this, going into a fight like a 
navvy. 

5.30 a. m. Plans have been explained in detail 
to every man, and orders given that if all officers 
and N. C. O.'s are knocked out, the men are to 
carry on and finish the job themselves. 

Very foggy morning; we are able to finish dig- 
ging trench. 

6 a. m. Astounding news. The battalion 
bombers have failed. A few survivors, after 
fighting all night, have been driven into the wood. 
The mystery trench over which I must cross is 
in the hands of the Boches. Could we hope to 
accomplish the double task ? 

The men heard the news in silence. 

7 a. m. Breakfast consists of some dirty bread 
and cheese, and a little water. 

89 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

8. a. m. Fog lifted. Our position is correct. 
Can see objective plainly about four hundred 
yards off. We can also be seen plainly, and 
snipers are busy trying to pick us off. 

Have made a reconnaissance, and find inter- 
vening ground a mass of shell-holes. Looks like 
a rough sea. The advance will be difficult; the 
ground is so churned up. Not a square yard of 
unbroken ground. 

2. p. m. Everything is now in readiness, with 
nearly three hours to spare. 

Have ordered men to eat their dinners, which 
consists of bread and cheese at 3 p. m., so that they 
will go into the fight on full stomachs. 

I have had no sleep or proper food for nearly 
two days. Will lie down and get an hour's rest 
before the attack. 



90 



CHAPTER XV 

THE ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE 
WOOD 

NEW OPERATION ORDERS. "AT ANY COST." 
LIKE RATS IN A TRAP 

HAD hardly closed my eyes when a runner 
from headquarters came hurrying along the 
line, and was directed to where I was dozing at 
the bottom of a trench. 

"Message from the C. 0., sir, very urgent." 

I signed the receipt and tore the envelope 
open. Good heavens ! new operation orders ! I 
was astounded. I looked again, hardly daring to 
believe my eyes. Sure enough, there was no 
mistake about it, three pages of closely written 
operation orders. The head-line seemed to be 
mocking me : 

"Fresh operation orders, cancelling those issued 
this morning." 

I read on: "You are to advance on through 
91 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

Leuze Wood, and attack from that part of the 
wood which forms the fourth side of the square- 
shaped trench, thus attacking the inside of the 
square; B Company taking the lower half, and 
C Company the upper half; A Company to be in 
support." 

A cold shiver ran down my back. What a 
calamity ! and after all the pains I had taken to 
work out the details of the attack, and that 
dreadful night spent in digging these trenches 
to jump off from. Every man knew what to 
do, and now at the eleventh hour the whole plan 
was altered. 

I glanced again at the new orders: 

"You are to be at the new place of assembly 
by 3.30 p. m.; zero hour is 4.45." 

I looked at my watch — Great Scott ! it was 
already 2.15; at 3 p.m. I must commence the 
advance through the wood. 

The men had not yet commenced their dinners. 
What time was there ? and how was it possible 
to sit down quietly and digest those three pages 
of new orders and understand their meaning ? 
What time had I to make new plans and explain 
to each man his new task ? 

92 



ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD 

There was not a moment to be lost; I turned 
to my two runners: 

"Dinners to be eaten at once. Platoon com- 
manders wanted at the double." 

I waited, and by and by the platoon com- 
manders, Second Lieutenant Farman and Chisle- 
hirst, and Sergeants Blackwell and Barnes, came 
running along the top, snipers shooting at them 
as they ran along. They halted on the parados, 
saluting as they came up, and, still standing up, 
awaited orders, seemingly indifferent to the ex- 
cellent target which they presented. 

"Lie down flat," I ordered. 

They did as I directed, their faces turned 
anxiously toward me, wondering what was up. 

"New operation orders just arrived from head- 
quarters; previous orders cancelled. We are to 
advance through the wood and attack from the 
inside of the square." 

I hurriedly read the whole of the orders over 
to them, and they listened silently. 

"Go back to your platoons. The men are to 
be dressed in battle order by 2.50 — it's now 2.30 
— by 3 p. m the platoons are to be closed up 
along the trench, and the leading platoon will 

93 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

enter the wood in single file, other platoons fol- 
lowing." 

As I glanced up I noticed their faces were pale; 
they were listening intently, but uttering no 
sound. They were receiving orders; they real- 
ised their responsibility, and they knew their 
duty. 

The last paragraph was underlined. I hurriedly 
read it and looked up at them again: 

"Just one more thing," I said. " These are 
my orders underlined: 

"you must reach your objective at any 
cost. If driven back, you are to make a 
stand at the edge of the wood, and hold out 
till the last man falls." 

It sounded like a death sentence, a forecast of 
the hour of trial which we were to face. Only 
those who have received such orders on the field 
of battle can realise what it feels like. 

In those few dramatic moments we counted 
our lives as lost. We recognised how desperate 
was our task. Success we might hope for; but 
failure we must pay the price of. We must fight 
till the last man falls — and yet we were merely 
civilian soldiers. 

94 



ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD 

I looked into their faces; our eyes met. I un- 
derstood; I could trust them; they could trust 
me. 

"That's all; return to your platoons and pre- 
pare to move." 

They had not uttered a word through all this; 
no words were necessary. They jumped to their 
feet; saluted as though we were back on Salis- 
bury Plain, and the next moment ran along the 
parados to their platoons. 

I watched them, and saw them kneel down on 
the top of their trench, indifferent to the snipers' 
bullets whistling about their heads, hurriedly ex- 
plaining the situation to their men. 

By 3 p. m. the men were ready and had closed 
along the trench to the wood. 

The movement had been seen by the enemy, and 
a terrific burst of firing commenced; although, 
at the time I could not see what effect it was 
having. 

I waited several minutes, but there was no 
further movement along the trench to indicate 
that the first platoon had entered the wood. I 
sent forward the message, "Carry on," but still 
no movement resulted. 

95 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

At last, feeling something was wrong and un- 
able to restrain my impatience any longer, I 
jumped out of the trench and ran along the 
parados. 

What I saw there appalled me for the moment ; 
the wood in front of me was filled with bursting 
shells; a continuous pr-r-r-r-r seemed to be mov- 
ing backward and forward, and bullets were 
whistling in all directions. 

Good God ! what a hell ! No wonder the men 
hesitated ! What was to be done ? My orders 
left me no alternative. I must advance through 
the wood. My brain kept repeating the words, 
"At any cost!" What a cost it would be to 
enter that hell ! It was now, or never ! 

We were hesitating; something must be done, 
and done quickly. I looked at Farman, and I 
knew I could count on him. 

The next moment I leaped into a newly made 
shell-hole, about five yards in the wood; called 
upon Farman to follow, and a moment later he 
came jumping after. 

The noise was terrific. We yelled at the top 
of our voices for the next man to follow. 

The next man to take the leap was the com- 
96 



ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD 

pany sergeant-major. A piece of shell struck 
him in the side, and he rolled over on the ground, 
clutching at his tunic. 

Again we yelled for the men to come along; 
and one by one they took the leap. 

When six of us were in the shell-hole it was 
time for us to empty it to make room for others. 
Farman and I took it in turns to lead the way, 
and this process went on through the wood, leap- 
ing from hole to hole, and yelling at the top of our 
lungs for the others to follow us. 

By this time the scene inside the wood was in- 
describable. Machine-gun bullets were spraying 
backward and forward; 6 -inch shells were ex- 
ploding in all directions; and the din was intensi- 
fied by the crashing of trees uprooted by the ex- 
plosions, and the dull thud of the missiles striking 
the ground. 

Through the dull light of that filthy wood we 
frequently cast an anxious glance towards the 
red rockets being sent up from the German lines, 
directing the fire of their artillery towards us. 

Sometimes, in leaping forward, we would land 
beside the dead and mutilated carcass of a Ger- 
man soldier who had fallen a week before. It 

97 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

was ghastly, terrible; and the millions of flies 
sucking at his open wounds would swarm about 
us, seemingly in a buzz of anger at our distur- 
bance. But sickly and ghastly as the scene was, 
farther and farther into this exaggerated hell we 
must go. 

By this time the cries of the wounded added to 
the terrors of the scene. Each time we jumped 
into a shell-hole, we turned to watch the men 
leap in. Each time it seemed that a new face 
appeared, and the absence of those who had 
jumped into the last shell-hole was only too 
significant. 

But, undaunted by their falling comrades, each 
man, in his turn, leaped forward and would lie 
gasping for breath until his turn came for another 
effort. 

Farman was the first to speak. It was his turn 
to take the next leap: 

"I don't think it really matters. There's a 
hole about thirty yards away; I think I'll go 
straight for that." 

He got up and walked leisurely across, as 
though inviting the death which seemed inevita- 
ble. He stopped at the shell-hole, and for a 

98 



ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD 

moment seemed to be looking down undecided 
whether to jump in or not. 

I shouted at him: 

"Don't be a damned fool; jump!" 

The next moment a shell burst between us, 
and I fell back into the shell-hole. When I 
again looked out and my eyes could penetrate 
the smoke, I saw no sign of Farman. I yelled, 
and to my intense relief I saw his head appear. 
He was safe ! 

Again and again the last paragraph of my 
orders seemed to be blazing in front of me, and 
like a hidden hand from that dark inferno of hor- 
rors, kept beckoning me forward, "At any cost! 
At any cost !" 

Yes; this must be the end; but it's hell to die 
in a wood. 

The men used to call it Lousy Wood. What 
do they call it now ? They were brave fellows ; 
and they were only civilian soldiers, too ! They 
used to be volunteers once. People would laugh, 
and call them Saturday afternoon soldiers. 

Reviews in Hyde Park used to be a joke, and 
the comic papers caricatured these men, and used 
them as material for their jests. 

99 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

They were only Territorials ! That man, pant- 
ing hard at the bottom of the shell-hole, and still 
clutching at his rifle, is a bank clerk; that man who 
fell at the last jump, with his stomach ripped up, 
was a solicitor's clerk. 

Look at the others. Their faces are pale ; their 
eyes are bulging. But they are the same faces 
one used to see in Cornhill and Threadneedle 
Street. 

Yes, they are only Territorials ! But here in 
this filthy wood they are damned proud of it. 

And what is taking place in England to-day ? 

Is it really true that while all this is going on 
in Leuze Wood, orchestras are playing sweet music 
in brilliantly lighted restaurants in London — 
while a gluttonous crowd eat of the fat of the 
land ? Is it really true that women in England 
are dressing more extravagantly than ever ? Is 
it really true that some men in England are un- 
able or unwilling to share the nation's peril — 
are even threatening to strike ? 

No ! No ! Do not let us think that this is 
the true picture of England. If it is, then, Terri- 
torials, let us die in Leuze Wood ! 



ioo 



CHAPTER XVI 

THE ATTACK 

a desperate situation. battle formation, 
"for England" 

TOY ! The last leap I took landed me in a 
trench, and I found to my great relief that 
it was the lower part of the square which ran 
through the wood. A few yards along this trench 
it emerged into the open, where it was in posses- 
sion of the Germans. 

Farman and I sat down, side by side, breathing 
heavily from our exertions. 

"That was hell, Farman," I said, hardly dar- 
ing to trust my voice. 

"Awful!" 

"I hope the men are still following." 

"Those that are left." 

"Have a cigarette; it will buck the men up to 
see us smoking." 

"Thanks, I will, though I'm as dry as a bone." 

IOI 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"Save your water; we've still got the attack 
to do. We've got an hour yet; that will give 
the men time to recover." 

By this time, one by one, the men began to 
jump into the trench. As the men arrived, their 
faces pale and eyes started, we called them by 
name. They looked up and smiled with relief at 
seeing us sitting there, side by side. They rec- 
ognised that the last jump had been made, and 
for the time being, at any rate, they were safe. 

We had started through the wood, about one 
hundred and thirty strong, and barely eighty 
mustered for the final attack. 

Some men of C Company appeared, threading 
their way along the trench. Farther in the wood, 
the commander, Lieutenant Barton, came up to 
arrange details for the attack. 

"You got your new orders in time, then," I 
remarked. 

"Just in time. It's hell, isn't it? I've lost 
heavily already, and we've still got to go over 
the top." 

"I've got orders to take half the battalion 
bombers from you; where are they?" 

"I would like to keep them; there are not 
102 



THE ATTACK 

many left, and they are badly broken up — been 
fighting all night." 

"All right, you keep them. I'm going to form 
up between here and that broken tree. Will you 
form up farther to the left ?" 

"All right. Well, I'll be off; cheer oh! old 
chap. ' ' 

' ' Good-bye, Barton. Good luck ! ' ' 

I never saw Barton again ! I heard some 
months afterwards that he fell, riddled with ma- 
chine-gun bullets whilst leading his men into the 
subsequent attack. 

"Pass the word for No. 8 Platoon commander," 
I ordered, wishing to ascertain if the last platoon 
had arrived. 

A young sergeant came up at the double, and 
saluted. 

"I am in command, sir." 

His tone and manner inspired me immensely. 
Notwithstanding all the danger we had passed 
through, he seemed to be full of ginger and 
pride at finding himself in command of the 
platoon. 

"Where is Mr. Chislehirst, then?" I asked. 

"Wounded, sir, in the wood; shot through the 
103 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

chest. The last I saw of him he was giving an- 
other wounded man a drink from his water- 
bottle." 

"All right; do you understand your orders r" 

"Yes, sir, quite." 

"Return to your platoon, and await orders to 
form up." 

He saluted and doubled back to his men. I 
forget his name, but he was a fine fellow, that 
sergeant; quite cool, and evidently pleased at 
his new responsibility. 

So poor old Chislehirst was hit; fine fellow; 
very young, only about twenty; good company 
in the mess; reliable in the field. Just like him 
to give his water-bottle to some one else when 
he could go no farther. 

Farman was my only subaltern left. Sud- 
denly he gripped my arm and pointed into the 
wood: 

"Look over there. Who are those fellows 
creeping along that trench ?" 

I looked in the direction he was pointing, and 
there, to my astonishment, on the very ground 
just vacated by C Company, about a dozen fig- 
ures in bluish grey were creeping along a shallow 

104 



THE ATTACK 

trench. I thought at first they were coming in 
to surrender; but they made no signs, but were 
evidently making the best of cover. 

What were they up to ? There were only about 
12 of them, and I had between 70 and 80 men. 
For such a small number to come out alone and 
attack us seemed absurd, and I waited, expect- 
ing them to throw up their hands and come in. 
Perhaps they thought they had not been seen. 
I picked up a rifle, and taking aim, fired at the 
last man but one; I missed. 

Still they kept creeping on. I fired a second 
time at the same man, and he dropped. The 
thing didn't seem real, seeing those heads bob- 
bing along a trench ; I felt for a moment as though 
I were shooting rabbits. 

The next moment I realised their object. By 
this time they had worked well round my flanks. 
They were evidently a few daring men, who were 
trying to creep up unnoticed, with the intention 
of throwing bombs while we were in a congested 
area, occupied in forming up for the attack. A 
daring ruse, but a clever one; for a dozen men 
throwing bombs at close quarters could wipe us 
off the map, or, at any rate, could do enough 

105 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

damage by shock action of this kind to prevent 
our attack starting. 

I dared not give any order to fire for fear of 
hitting the men of C Company. The situation 
was desperate. I had no time to spare, for zero 
hour was close at hand. The same thoughts were 
running through Farman's mind. 

"Shall I have a go at them ?" he said. 

"Yes; form up your platoon, and stick them 
with the bayonet ; then join the attack as a fourth 
wave." 

I watched Farman and his platoon with bay- 
onets fixed, creeping on all fours towards the 
German bombers. That was the last I saw of 
them, as it was within 10 minutes of zero hour, 
and we were not yet in battle formation. 

I heard afterwards that they did the job well. 
But to part with the platoon and my only re- 
maining officer at this critical moment was a 
great loss to me; for I could not count upon them 
in the attack for which I had now only three 
platoons left — about sixty men. 

Half my strength had gone, and the real attack 
had not yet begun. I sent for the remaining pla- 
toon commanders and explained the situation: 

106 



THE ATTACK 

"No. 6 Platoon will now become the first wave. 
Form up and extend along the edge of the wood 
and await my signal to advance into the open. 
No. 7 Platoon, form up immediately in rear; 
and No. 8 Platoon, assemble in the trench close 
up. Bombing section of No. 6 will proceed 
along the trench parallel with the advance, 
bombing it out as they go along." 

The men formed up. The minutes seemed to 
be like hours. We were facing the inside of the 
square trench, which was a mass of shell-holes, 
and as though anticipating our intention, shells 
were bursting and bullets whistling on all sides. 

How peaceful England must be at this moment ; 
how pretty the villages! And how wicked this 
hell seemed in front of us! And these were the 
men of England — nice chaps, only Territo- 
rials. 

One used to meet them in the city every day. 
Some were awful nuts. See them at lunch ; watch 
them pouring out of Liverpool Street Station 
between g and io o'clock in the morning, with 
newspaper and walking-stick; see them in the 
banks, bending over ledgers. You could hardly 
believe it; but these were the same men. 

107 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

They were not very trim just now; their hands 
are grimy as they clutch at their rifles, undaunted 
by the terrors they have already passed through 
and the sight of their fallen comrades left groan- 
ing in the wood. 

There they are, extended and lying flat on the 
ground, waiting further orders. They have come 
through one hell by the skin of their teeth, and 
are patiently looking into another hell ; their lives 
were counted by minutes, these office men. But 
their eyes were fixed on the far side of the square 
trench which was to be their objective; unless by 
God's will, and for the sake of England, they 
found an earlier one. 

London men ! Some may call you ' ' only Terri- 
torials." Training has been your hobby; but 
fighting was never your profession. 

What will England think of this? England 
may never know. 

Who ever heard of Leuze Wood before ? If a 
man is killed in England there is an inquest. 
People read about it in the papers. 

Are the people left behind in England suffering 
hardships uncomplainingly, and gritting their 
teeth like you are ? You are only getting a bob 

108 



THE ATTACK 

a day. England needs you; you are masters. 
Why don't you strike at this critical moment ? 

No, my lads; you are made of different stuff. 
You are men ! There are those in England this 
day who work for England's cause; there are 
others who are enriching themselves by your 
absence; there are homes which will feel your 
sacrifice. 

You have seen the wasted homes and the 
ghastly outrages in France; and between that 
picture and the green fields of England you must 
make your stand; those in England will depend 
upon you this day. 

Zero hour is at hand. Agonies, mutilation, and 
death are within a few yards of you. There will 
be no pictures of your deeds; there are no flags 
or trumpets to inspire you; you are lying on the 
dirty ground on the edge of Leuze Wood, with 
hell in front of you, and hell behind you — hell 
in those trenches on the left, hell in those trenches 
on the right. 

One more minute and you will stand up and 
walk into it. My lads ! It's for England ! 



109 



CHAPTER XVII 

AT ANY COST 

OVER THE TOP. MAD, FIGHTING MAD. THE 
FINAL ASSAULT 

AT last the th tinder of our guns towards the 
German lines confirmed the hour. Zero 
hour had arrived; the barrage had begun. 

"No. 6 Platoon will advance." 

The front line jumped up and walked into the 
open. Wonderful ! Steady as a rock ! The line 
was perfect. 

On the left the front line of C Company has 
also emerged from the wood; the bombers of 
No. 6 Platoon disappeared along the mystery 
trench. 

The tut-ut-ut-ut of machine-guns developed 
from several parts of the square, while the crack 
of rifles increased in intensity. 

No. 7 Platoon jumped up and advanced into 
the open, followed by the third wave. 

no 



AT ANY COST 

I extended my runners and followed. 

What followed next beggars description. As 
I write these lines my hand hesitates to describe 
the hell that was let loose upon those men. No 
eye but mine could take in the picture so com- 
pletely. 

Will the world ever know what these men faced 
and fought against — these men of the City of 
London ? Not unless I tell it, for I alone saw all 
that happened that day; and my hand alone, 
weak and incapable though it feels, is the only 
one that can do it. 

Barely had I emerged from the wood with my 
ten runners when a perfect hurricane of shells 
were hurled at us, machine-guns from several 
points spraying their deadly fire backward and 
forward, dropping men like corn before the reaper. 
From all three sides of the square a hurricane of 
fire was poured into the centre of the square upon 
us, as we emerged from the wood. 

In far less time than it takes to record it, the 
attacking waves became a mere sprinkling of 
men. They went on for a yard or two, and then 
all seemed to vanish; and even my runners, whom 
I had extended into line, were dropping fast. 

in 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

The situation was critical, desperate. Fearful 
lest the attack should fail, I ran forward, and 
collecting men here and there from shell-holes 
where some had taken refuge, I formed them 
into a fresh firing-line, and once more we pressed 
forward. 

Again and again the line was thinned; and 
again the survivors, undaunted and unbeaten, 
reformed and pressed forward. 

Men laughed, men cried in the desperation of 
the moment. We were grappling with death; 
we were dodging it, cheating it; we were mad, 
blindly hysterical. What did anything matter ? 
Farther and farther into the inferno we must 
press, at any cost, at any cost; leaping, jumping, 
rushing, we went from shell-hole to shell-hole; 
and still the fire continued with unrelenting fury. 

I jumped into a shell-hole, and found myself 
within ten yards of my objective. My three re- 
maining runners jumped in alongside of me. 
They were Arnold, Dobson, and Wilkinson. 

Arnold was done for ! He looked up at me 
with eyes staring and face blanched, and panted 
out that he could go no farther, and I realised 
that I could count on him no more. 

112 



AT ANY COST 

I glanced to the left, just in time to see three 
Germans not five yards away, and one after the 
other jump from a shell-hole which formed a sort 
of bay to their trench, and run away. 

Wishing to save the ammunition in my re- 
volver for the hand-to-hand scuffle which seemed 
imminent, I seized the rifle of Arnold and fired. 
I missed all three; my hand was shaky. 

What was I to do next ? The company on 
my left had disappeared; the trench just in front 
of me was occupied by the Boches. I had with 
me three runners, one of whom was helpless, and 
in the next shell-hole about six men, the sole sur- 
vivors of my company. 

Where were the supports ? Anxiously I glanced 
back toward the wood ; why did they not come ? 

Poor fellows, I did not know it at the time, but 
the hand of death had dealt with them even more 
heavily in the wood than it had with us. 

My position was desperate. I could not re- 
tire. My orders were imperative: "You must 
reach your objective at any cost." I must get 
there somehow. But even if we got there, how 
long could I hope to hold out with such a hand- 
ful of men ? 

"3 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

Immediate support I must have; I must take 
risks. I turned to brave Dobson and Wilkin- 
son: 

"Message to the supports: 'Send me two pla- 
toons quickly; position critical.'" 

Without a moment's hesitation they jumped 
up and darted off with the message which might 
save the day. 

Dobson fell before he had gone two yards; 
three paces farther on I saw Wilkinson, the pet 
of the company, turn suddenly round and fall 
on the ground, clutching at his breast. All hope 
for the supports was gone. 

At this moment the bombing section, which 
by this time had cleared the mystery trench, 
arrived on the right of the objective; and to my 
delirious joy, I noticed the Germans in the trench 
in front of me running away along the trench. 

It was now, or never ! We must charge over 
that strip of land and finish them with the bay- 
onet. A moment's hesitation and the tables 
might again be turned, and all would be lost. 
The trench in front must be taken by assault; 
it must be done. There were six or seven of us 
left, and we must do it. 

114 



AT ANY COST 

I yelled to the men: 

"Get ready to charge, they are running. Come 
on ! Come on !" 

I jumped out of the shell-hole, and they fol- 
lowed me. Once again I was mad. I saw noth- 
ing, I heard nothing ; I wanted to kill ! kill ! 

Pf— ung ! 

Oh ! My God ! I was hit in the head ! I was 
blind ! 



ii5 



CHAPTER XVIII 
LEFT ON THE FIELD 

THE MYSTERY OF DEATH. THE SECRET CODE. 
TWO TERRIBLE DAYS 

T WAS wounded ! I was blind ! But the mo- 
ments that followed are clear in my memory. 
The brain shocked by a blow works quickly and 
actively in its excited effort to hold its own. 

I was quite conscious and thinking clearly: I 
knew what had happened and what would hap- 
pen; I remembered every detail. 

My head at the moment was inclined to the 
right, for I was shouting to the men. Like a 
flash I remembered that about fifty yards to the 
left of me there was a "German strong point" 
still occupied by the Germans. A bullet had 
entered my left temple; it must have come from 
a sniper in that strong point. The bullet had 
passed clean through my head; I thought it had 
emerged through my right temple. I was mis- 
taken on that point, for I found some days later 

116 



LEFT ON THE FIELD 

that it had emerged through the centre of my 
right eye. 

I remember distinctly clutching my head and 
sinking to the ground, and all the time I was 
thinking ' ' so this is the end — the finish of it 
all ; shot through the head, mine is a fatal wound." 

Arnold jumped up, and catching me in his 
arms, helped me back into the shell-hole. 

I hesitate to tell what followed. But as I am 
trying to record the sensations experienced at the 
time of receiving a head wound, I will describe 
the next experience simply, and leave the reader 
to form his own conclusions. 

I was blind then, as I am now; but the black- 
ness which was then before me underwent a 
change. A voice from somewhere behind me 
said: "This is death; will you come?" 

Then gradually the blackness became more 
intense. A curtain seemed to be slowly falling; 
there was space ; there was darkness, blacker than 
my blindness; everything was past. There was 
a peacefulness, a nothingness; but a happiness 
indescribable. 

I seemed for a moment somewhere in the empti- 
ness looking down at my body, lying in the shell- 

117 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

hole, bleeding from the temple. I was dead ! 
and that was my body; but I was happy. 

But the voice I had heard seemed to be wait- 
ing for an answer. I seemed to exert myself by 
a frantic effort, like one in a dream who is trying 
to awaken. 

I said: "No, not now; I won't die." Then 
the curtain slowly lifted; my body moved and I 
was moving it. I was alive ! 

There, my readers, I have told you, and I have 
hesitated to tell it before. More than that, I 
will tell you that I was not unconscious; neither 
did I lose consciousness until several minutes 
later, and then unconsciousness was quite different. 

I have told you how clear was my brain the 
moment I was hit, and I tell you also that after 
the sensation I have just related, my brain was 
equally clear, as I will show you, until I became 
unconscious. 

Call it a hallucination, a trick of the brain, 
or what you will. I make no attempt to influence 
you ; I merely record the incident — but my own 
belief I will keep to myself. 

Whatever it was, I no longer feel there is any 
mystery about death. Nor do I dread it. 

118 



LEFT ON THE FIELD 

Arnold was busy tearing open the field dressing 
which I carried in a pocket of my tunic. 

"Use the iodine first, Arnold; it's in the pocket 
in a glass phial." 

"The glass is broken, sir." 

"In a piece of paper there are two morphia 
tablets — quick, better give them to me." 

"They are not here, sir." And he bound the 
dressing round my eyes as the blood trickled 
down my face. 

"Quick, Arnold, my right pocket — feel in it; 
some papers there — a secret code — take them 
out — tear them up — quickly ; tell me have you 
done it?" 

"Yes, sir, I have done it." 

I was sinking; I felt myself going; I felt that 
the end was at hand. I clutched his shoulder 
and pulled him towards me: 

"Arnold, I'm going. If you get back — tell 
my — wife — " But the message that was on 
my lips was not finished; I could speak no 
more. I was dropping into space, dropping, 
dropping; everything disappeared, I remembered 
no more. 

I do not know how long I remained in this 
119 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

condition. I remember gaining consciousness and 
finding Arnold by my side. 

Something terrible was happening. I gradu- 
ally began to realise that another attack was 
taking place over my head. This time the fire 
was coming from both sides. A stream of bul- 
lets seemed to be pouring over the shell-hole. 
The meaning was obvious: a machine-gun had 
been placed in the trench ten yards away, and 
its deadly fire was pouring over the shell-hole 
in which we lay. Loud explosions were taking 
place all round us, and with each explosion the 
earth seemed to upheave, and I felt the thug, 
thug of pieces of metal striking the earth close 
by; whilst showers of earth kept falling on my 
body. I couldn't last long. The guns of both 
sides seemed to be searching for us; we must 
soon be blown to pieces. 

How long this lasted I cannot say. I was weak; 
my shattered nerves could not stand such a ter- 
rible ordeal. I lay huddled and shivering at the 
bottom of the shell-hole, waiting for the jagged 
metal to strike my body, or be hurled, mutilated, 
into the air. 

Again I became unconscious. When I next 
120 



LEFT ON THE FIELD 

recovered my senses Arnold was trying to lift 
me, to carry me away, but his strength was not 
equal to it. He laid me down again. 

The firing had ceased. He seemed to be peer- 
ing out of the shell-hole and talking to me. I 
think he was planning escape. It must have been 
dark, for he seemed uncertain about the direction. 

Then I began to vomit; I seemed to be vomit- 
ing my heart out, while Arnold seemed to be 
trying to comfort me. 

I again became unconscious. When I regained 
consciousness for the third time it seemed to me 
that I had been insensible for a great length of 
time. But I seemed to be much refreshed, al- 
though very weak. 

Everything was silent, uncanny; I could see 
nothing, hear nothing. Yes, I remembered; I 
was shot blind, and I was still in the shell-hole. 
I felt my head; there was a rough bandage 
round it, covering my eyes. The bandage over 
my right eye was hardened with blood, and dried 
blood covered my left cheek. My hair was 
matted with clay and blood; and my clothes 
seemed to be covered with loose earth. 

But what did this uncanny silence mean ? — 

121 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

Arnold, where was he ? I called him by name, 
but there was no response. I remembered the 
firing I had heard: yes, he must be dead. 

In my blindness and despair I groped on my 
hands and knees around the shell-hole to find 
his body. He was not there. / was alone ! 



122 



CHAPTER XIX 
THE JAWS OF DEATH 

LONELINESS, DARKNESS, AND SILENCE. A LAST 
EFFORT. I PREPARE FOR DEATH 

DID not know at the time, of course, what 

had become of Arnold; but I found out later. 

Fearing I was dying when I lapsed into uncon- 
sciousness again, after my fit of vomiting, he 
decided under cover of darkness to try and find 
his way back to the British lines to bring me aid. 

After stumbling about in and out of shell- 
holes, he suddenly saw the barrel of a rifle point- 
ing at him from a trench close by, and following 
him as he moved; and a moment later he was a 
prisoner. 

Understanding German, he told his captors 
that I was lying out in No Man's Land, and 
begged them to send me medical aid; and they 
answered that stretcher-bearers would be sent 
to make a search. 

Whether the stretcher-bearers were sent or not 
I do not know; but if they were, they were not 

123 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

successful in finding me; for to the best of my 
belief it was on the Monday morning that I again 
regained consciousness, to find myself alone — 
two days after I had been shot. 

It is difficult for me to describe my feelings 
when I found myself alone. I had no pain, I 
seemed to feel very small and the world very 
large. I sat up and felt my head; my face felt 
twice its usual size, and seemed sticky and clammy 
with earth and blood. 

Everything was so silent. 

There was a great lump of hardened blood 
where the rough field dressing covered my right 
eye; my left cheek, nose, and lips were swollen 
tremendously. 

Whether it was night or day I did not know. 
But I knew I was blind. I tried to collect my 
thoughts and to reason out my position. 

Where was the German line, and where was the 
British ? I knew that I must be a considerable 
distance from the British line; but which direc- 
tion it was in, I could not tell. 

If I were to crawl, which way should I go and 
where should I find myself ? Better to make the 
attempt and take my chance, than lie where I 

124 



THE JAWS OF DEATH 

was. On my hands and knees I tried to crawl 
up the side of the shell-hole. But I had not 
reckoned on my weakness ; the world was so large 
and I was so small. 

Before I could reach the top my strength gave 
out, and I slid to the bottom. Again and again 
I tried, and with each attempt I kept slipping 
back, each time, bringing with me a pile of loose 
earth. 

At last I realised how hopeless it all was, with 
so little strength. And unable even to reach to 
the top of the shell-hole, how could I hope ever 
to reach the British line across the sea of shell- 
holes which intervened ? I seemed so far from 
everything; though little did I dream at the time 
that German soldiers were within a few yards of 
me in the trench from which I had driven them 
by such desperate efforts two days before — two 
days ! Surely it was two years ! 

Then my fate dawned upon me. Of course the 
end was quite logical. This was the end; it 
could not be otherwise. Had I not made up my 
mind it would come ? Surely I did before I 
started ? Was I not shot through the head and 
left to die? Well, this was the proper place to 

125 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

die. But what surprised me was that the thought 
of dying seemed so comforting. I was so weary, 
and death seemed so peaceful. 

I have heard people say that when a person is 
drowning, after the first frantic struggles are 
over, a delightful sensation of peacefulness comes 
over him, and he ceases to desire to help himself. 
That was how I felt at that moment. This shell- 
hole was my grave. Well, it seemed quite right 
and proper. 

The idea of getting back to life after suffering 
so many deaths seemed very unreasonable. My 
sensations were those of one who had awakened 
to find himself buried alive. To be alive at all 
was cheating death, which held me firmly in its 
grip. Better to accept it and wait calmly for the 
end. 

The life of the world seemed so far away from 
me. My family, my home, my friends and scenes 
that I used to know so well seemed in a misty 
past, a long, long way away — a different age. 

After all, it did not matter very much. It 
was all so very long ago. It had all happened 
long ago. My absence was an accepted fact; I 
was now a memory. 

126 



THE JAWS OF DEATH 

Now, I have already said that I awoke refreshed. 
I will say, further, that I was never so clear- 
headed in my life. I had little power in my 
limbs. My brain was never more calm and cal- 
culating and indifferent to the death which I 
knew was at hand. 

It was not nerve, because I had none. It had 
nothing to do with the question of pluck or cow- 
ardice. It was simply the state of the brain 
before its last kick. I had ceased to resist my 
fate; I accepted it. I was not dead yet — but 
I was to die there, and that was to be my grave. 

I began to think out calmly in what way my 
life would nicker out, and I concluded that it 
would come as a result of my wound during a 
period of unconsciousness, or by the slower proc- 
ess of thirst, starvation, and exposure. In the 
latter case I should probably have violent spasms 
or struggles. I had better prepare myself. 

I was lying in a very uncomfortable position. 
There was a pile of loose earth, which stuck 
against my body awkwardly. With my hands 
and feet I scooped it out until my body lay com- 
fortably in a hollow, with the loose earth forming 
a sort of bed. In doing this I found a water- 

127 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

bottle. Arnold must have left it behind for me. 
There was only a drain in it, which I drank, 
and threw the bottle away. 

I next searched my pockets for food and found 
a small crust, the remains of what had been my 
food the day before the attack. I placed this 
carefully in my pocket for use at the time when 
I should experience the final pangs of starvation. 
My own water-bottle still contained about half 
a pint of water. I placed this on the ground, 
close to where my face would be, so that I could 
clutch it readily. 

These preparations over, my brain began to 
get tired. There was nothing else to be done; 
everything was ready. I would lie down now 
and wait for the end. I laid my head on the 
ground, using the side of the shell-hole as a 
pillow. 

I was very comfortable, the soft earth seemed 
almost like a bed. After all, I was a lucky fellow 
to be able to die in a comfortable way like this. 
I wondered how long it would really be — days 
more, perhaps, but still I could wait. Yes, the 
life of the world was a very long way away; 
after all, it did not matter. 

128 



THE JAWS OF DEATH 

How long I waited in this position I do not 
know, but it suddenly occurred to me that I 
was passing away, and for a moment all the old 
scenes came closer. They were passing by in a 
sort of procession. 

A sudden impulse caused me to raise myself 
into a sitting position. I waved my hand above 
my head and shouted out, "Good-bye." The 
procession was over. I lay down again and waited 
for the end. 



129 



CHAPTER XX 

AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN — 
AND AFTER 

A BASIN OF SOUP. HOSPITAL AT ST. QUENTIN. 
THE "OPEN SESAME" 

A MOMENT or two later something occurred 
which caused my wearied brain to be roused 
again into activity. What could it mean ? 

I was again thinking hard, listening intently; 
something undefinable had happened to suddenly 
revive my mental condition. Had I passed away, 
and was this the next life? I felt like one who 
had awakened out of a dream in the dead of night, 
conscious that some one or something was mov- 
ing near him. 

1 ' Englishman ! Kamarade ! ' ' 

Great God ! I was found ! 

Had I the strength I should probably have 
screamed with joy, for that was my impulse at 
hearing a human voice. A second later and my 
feeling was to shrink from discovery. Surrender ? 
Was it then to come to this, after all ? 

130 



AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 

I did not answer; it was not necessary. 

He must have heard me shout; he must know 
where I am. I was unarmed and helpless; what 
need to answer such a call ? He would probably 
seek me, and I should be found without need to 
foul my lips with an answer. 

And then I felt that it was not my life that 
was being saved, but a lingering death avoided 
by a murderous, but quick despatch. Well, per- 
haps it was better it should come that way. 

Presently I heard some one crawling towards 
me. A few pebbles rolled down the slope, and 
there was silence again. I felt that he was look- 
ing down at me. Again a shuffle, and a quantity 
of loose earth rolled down the slope, and he was 
sliding down towards me. 

The supreme moment had arrived. Would it 
be a bullet or a bayonet thrust ; and where would 
it strike me ? 

I lay perfectly still. He seemed to be bending 
over me undecidedly. I thought he might be- 
lieve me dead and go away without finishing me 
off, to seek the cause of the shout elsewhere. 

I raised myself on my elbow and turned my 
face towards him. Then, to my astonishment he 

131 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

put his arms around my body and raised me up. 
What strange wonder was this ? He put my arm 
around his neck, and with his own arm around 
my body, he raised me to my feet. But I could 
not stand. Then, placing both arms firmly 
around me, he dragged me out of the shell-holes. 
I felt myself being dragged several yards, and 
then he stopped. 

I heard many voices talking below me. What 
would happen next. Then several hands caught 
hold of me, and I was lifted into a trench. 

Some one gave an order, and I was dragged 
along the trench and around a corner. More 
voices seemed to come from still farther below. 
Some one picked hold of my feet, and I was car- 
ried down several steps. I was in a dugout. 

It seemed warm and cosy. There were officers 
around me. Here must be the company com- 
mander whom I had driven away two days be- 
fore. Now he could take his revenge. What 
mercy could I hope from him? 

A voice asked me a question in English. But 
by this time I had collapsed completely. I tried 
to speak, but no sound would come from my 
throat. My head seemed to be an enormous 

132 



AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 

size; my jaw would not move. I felt some one 
examine my tunic and examine my pockets. 
No, there were no papers there. I heard some 
one say "Hauptmann." Then more talking. 

A cigarette was put in my mouth. I held it 
between my swollen lips, but could not inhale. 
A sharp command was given, and once more I 
was lifted up on to some one's back, and was 
being dragged down a long communication 
trench. 

I was able presently to realise that I was in a 
dressing-station, for I was laid on a stretcher. 
Some one bent over me, evidently a medical 
officer. 

My throat was parched. Oh, how thirsty I 
was ! He was saying something to me in English 
in a very kindly manner. He opened a bottle 
of Seltzer water, and, lifting me up, placed it to 
my lips. Oh, how thirsty I was ! I held out 
my hand for more. Bottle after bottle of Seltzer 
water was opened, and I drank one after the 
other. In my haziness I seemed to be wonder- 
ing how they came to be supplied with such 
quantities of Seltzer water so close up to the 
front line. 

133 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

He opened up my tunic and rubbed something 
on my chest. I heard him say, very gently: 

"Injection against tetanus. It won't hurt 
you"; and then I felt a very slight pin prick. 
He laid me down again. My head was throbbing. 

How hot and stuffy it was! I heard some 
groans, voices were speaking in a low tone. I 
again heard the word, "Hauptmann." 

Of the days which followed I have only a hazy 
recollection. My brain and body sustained dur- 
ing the period of danger and strain, collapsed 
completely, and during the next six days I had 
only occasional periods of sensibility. 

I can, therefore, only recall the facts between 
the time of my being picked up and my arrival 
at Hanover, six days later, in a disjointed manner. 

Telling only of incidents, which stand out here 
and there in my memory, it must be borne in 
mind that during the operations of September 
the 8th and 9th I had felt the weight of my 
responsibility ; and the great shock caused by my 
wound and the two days' exposure and suffering 
that followed, imposed a great strain upon my 
system, and reaction had now set in. 

134 



AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 

My wound had received no attention, and my 
right eye was hopelessly mutilated. The optic 
nerve of my left eye was damaged beyond repair, 
and the eye itself was obscured by an enormous 
swelling. My sense of smell was gone, and my 
cheeks, nose, and mouth were swollen and numbed 
to a painful degree. 

I had lost power in my lower jaw, which would 
barely move. My nerves were completely shat- 
tered, and the mere touch of a hand would make 
me shrink with fright. 

I had lost my voice, and during the occasional 
periods of sensibility, I could only speak in a 
startled whisper, while my brain in hideous de- 
lirium would constantly take me back to the 
scenes through which I had just passed. 

I remember my stretcher being lifted and being 
placed in a horse-drawn ambulance with several 
others. Before leaving, the M. 0. gave me a 
bottle of water, and so great was my thirst that 
for several days I kept this tightly gripped in 
my hand, and would not part with it except to 
get it refilled. 

I have a hazy idea of being transferred from 
one ambulance to another, and several journeys. 

i3S 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

The ground was very rough, and the shaking of 
the wagon seemed to cause great pain to other 
occupants. The bumping to my own head com- 
pelled me to raise it from the pillow and resist 
the jolts by resting it on my hand. 

Where I spent Monday night I do not know, 
but on Tuesday night I found myself in what 
must have been a small hospital in a town I do 
not remember. 

It seemed to me that I was in a sort of basement 
of a private house, and that a man and woman 
were watching over me, exhibiting very great 
kindness and compassion. 

I seemed to awaken from my stupor, and re- 
member some snatches of conversation, as they 
bent over me, for they could both speak a little 
English. 

Blood and clay were still caked on my face and 
hair; and my uniform was sticky with blood and 
grime. Oh, how I wished I could take it off 
and be put into clean clothes and a bed! 

The man was taking off my boots: 

"Dese very goot boots, yah?" 

I assented in a whisper. 

"You have dem give you, yah?" 
136 



AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 

'No," I whispered, "bought therr myself." 

"Where do you buy such goot boots ?" 

"London." 

"Ah, yah. I thought you would not get such 
goot boots for nothings. Look after dem well; 
we don't get goot boots like dat here." 

I whispered to him: 

"What is that noise?" 

"Ah, it is a pity. Ze English zey have been 
firing ze long-range guns here, big guns. Zay 
carry twenty-seven miles. Ve moved dis hos- 
pital two times, yah." 

The woman came up to my stretcher with a 
basin of soup. I shall never forget that basin of 
soup. It was probably very ordinary soup, but 
when I tasted the first spoonful I devoured it 
ravenously, for all this time I had not realised 
that I was suffering from starvation. For the 
past three days not an atom of food had passed 
my lips, and for two days previous to that an 
occasional bite of bread and cheese was my only 
ration. Even now I was not destined to receive 
the nourishment my body craved for; for one 
basin of soup per day was all I received during 
the remainder of that week. 

137 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

Still grasping my bottle of water under my 
blanket, I was removed next morning and placed 
in a freight truck with two others, one a sergeant 

in theGuards, and the other a private in the , 

London Regiment. We were locked in the truck, 
and kept there for many hours without food or 
conveniences of any kind, and finally arrived at 
St. Quentin. 

Some one removed the blanket from my face 
and examined my shoulder-straps. I heard him 
say "Hauptmann," and after that I seemed to 
be treated with some consideration. 

I did not understand a single word of German, 
and the repetition of this word puzzled me. It 
must have been some connection with my rank. 
I would try it on the next person who came near 
me and see what happened. 

I had not long to wait, for by and by the 
stretchers were lifted and we were carried into 
the hospital at St. Quentin. I was placed along- 
side a large number of others, and the place cre- 
ated a very unpleasant impression of the atten- 
tion I was likely to receive. 

The place seemed like Bedlam. All round me 
I heard the groans and cries of the wounded. 
How long would I be left here unattended ? How 

138 



AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 

I longed to have my clothes removed ! And what 
of my wound — how much longer must I go 
before it was attended to ? And what was hap- 
pening to it all this time? 

I heard some voices near me speaking in Ger- 
man. Now was the time I would test that magic 
word, and see what would happen. Removing 
the blankets from my face, and lifting my arm to 
attract attention, I whispered hoarsely: 

"Hauptmann !" 

Some one stooped down over me, examined my 
shoulder-strap, and said, "Huhzo!" He then 
gave an order, and my stretcher was again picked 
up, and I was carried up-stairs to a room reserved 
for officers. 

That "Open Sesame" served me in good stead 
on several occasions. 

But the hospital at St. Quentin was a horrible 
place. There was a Frenchman in the ward who 
was raving mad, and between his yells and shrieks 
of laughter, the moaning of the wounded, and 
the fitful awakenings from my own delirium I 
spent a most unhappy time. I think I must have 
been there about two days, and on the morning 
after my arrival I was sensible for a while. 

Adjoining the ward and only separated by an 
i39 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

open doorway was the operating-room, where first 
operations were taking place hurriedly. The 
scene was something I can never forget. One by 
one we were being taken in, and the shrieks of 
pain which followed were too shocking for descrip- 
tion. To hear strong men howl with pain is 
agonising enough; but to hear them shriek, and 
for those shrieks to fall upon the ears of nerve- 
broken men awaiting their turn just outside the 
open door was terrifying, appalling. 

As the shrieks subsided into weakened groans 
the stretcher would come back into the ward, 
and the next man be moved in ; and so we waited 
in an agony of suspense, horror, and dread as 
nearer and nearer we came to our turn. 

I do not wish to harrow my readers' feelings any 
more by describing how I felt when my stretcher 
was at last lifted and I was laid on the operating- 
table. I could not see the bloodiness of my sur- 
roundings, but I murmured to myself, as I had 
occasion to do on subsequent and similar occa- 
sions : 

"Thank God I'm blind." 

There was a nurse at St. Quentin whose devo- 
tion and humanity will be long remembered by 

140 



AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 

the many British and French wounded officers 
who have passed through that ward. In my 
half-dazed condition I seemed to have an idea 
that she was some sort of angel, whose gentle 
voice and comforting words were so soothing to 
the wounded, and inspired us with confidence in 
our painful conditions and surroundings. 

On Friday, still greedily hugging my bottle of 
water, I was removed from St. Quentin and placed 
in a hospital-train bound for Hanover. I was told 
it was a splendidly appointed train, with every 
modern appliance. 

The journey to Hanover occupied two days 
and two nights, but I remember nothing of it, 
as I believe I was unconscious the whole time. 

I do remember just before leaving being pre- 
sented with a haversack from the French Red 
Cross Society, and it was full of things which were 
extremely useful: a sleeping-shirt, handkerchiefs, 
biscuits, and similar articles. I have the haver- 
sack still. I carried it wherever I went in Ger- 
many, and never allowed it to leave my possession. 

On Sunday morning, September 17, the train 
pulled into Hanover, and the wounded were car- 
ried out and left for a time on the platform. 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

Some girls seemed to be busy giving refresh- 
ment to the wounded. A girl came to my 
stretcher, pulled down the blanket which cov- 
ered my face, and clumsily pushed the spout of 
a drinking-cup, containing coffee, into my mouth. 
I thought she was trying to feed me from some 
kind of teapot. The pot fell out of my mouth, 
and the coffee ran down my neck. 

A man picked it up, and holding it to my lips, 
enabled me to sip it. I felt very grateful to him, 
for I was badly in need of sustenance. He spoke 
to me very kindly. 

I thanked him in a whisper, and asked him if 
he was an officer. 

He replied in English: "No, I am a waiter." 

I think I became unconscious again. Rather 
unfortunate, for had I been stronger the humour 
of the remark would have amused me. 



142 



CHAPTER XXI 

ALIVE 

TT was the first night after my arrival at Han- 
over that I really fully recovered a state of 
consciousness. 

Although I have recorded several incidents of 
the week which had just passed, they were only 
occasional glimpses from which I would relapse 
again into unconsciousness, and it only comes 
back to me in a hazy sort of way, like dreams 
through a long night of sleep. 

But I remember well the moment when I finally 
awoke and took in my surroundings. It was 
early in the morning. I seemed to have had 
frightful dreams ; the horror of what I had passed 
through had been a frightful nightmare, mocking 
at me, laughing at me, blowing me to pieces. 

I turned over on my side. Strange place this 
shell-hole; it seemed very comfortable. What 
was this I was touching — a pillow, bedclothes. 
Good God ! I was in a bed ! As my thoughts 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

became clearer I lay perfectly still, almost in fear 
that any movement I might make would awaken 
me from this beautiful dream. 

A long, long time ago something frightful had 
happened from which rescue was impossible. 
Yet, surely this was a bed. 

Then I remembered the attack which had taken 
place over my body while I lay out in No Man's 
Land; of the shells which had burst around me 
in violent protest to my presence. I could not 
possibly have escaped; I must be maimed. 

Cautiously I began to feel my limbs, my arms, 
my body, my feet, my fingers; they were all 
there, untouched. The whole truth dawned upon 
me : My God ! I was alive ! 

I sat up in my bed; I wanted to shout and 
dance for joy. There was a bandage round my 
head : I was blind ! Yes, I knew that, but there 
was nothing really the matter with me except 
that. The mere fact of being only blind seemed 
in comparison a luxury. 

I was blind ! But joy indescribable — what was 
that triviality — I was alive ! alive ! 

Oh, my ! I never knew before that life was so 
wonderful. Did other people understand what 

144 



ALIVE 

life was ? No ; you must be dead to understand 
what life was worth. I must tell every one how 
wonderful it all is. 

But where was I ? I could hear no guns — a 
bed ? There were no beds at the front. I 
couldn't have dreamed it all; it must have been 
true; otherwise I should have been able to see. 

Where then could I be? Oh, God! Yes, I 
know — I am a prisoner of war ! 

But even this knowledge, which for the moment 
quieted me, could not suppress my exaltation. 
I was saved ! I was alive ! No pain racked my 
limbs; no terror prodded my brain. 

But I was weak and wasted. Oh, how weak I 
was ! How hungry ! But what of that, I was 
alive ! 

And where was England — such a long, long 
way off. I must go there at once, this minute. 
No, I. can't; I'm a prisoner. 

How miserable some people are who have no 
right to be. They cannot know how wonderful 
life is. Oh, how wonderful it is to die, and then 
to come to life again. 

I'm only blind ! Just imagine it ! What is 
that ? — it's nothing at all, compared with life ; 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

and when I get well and strong I won't be a blind 
man. 

I may not recover my sight, but that doesn't 
matter a bit, I will laugh at it, defy it. I will 
carry on as usual; I will overcome it and live the 
life that has been given back to me. 

I will be happy, happier than ever. I'm in a 
bed alive. Oh, God ! I am grateful ! 



146 



CHAPTER XXII 

BLINDNESS 

TTOW reckless we are in referring to death j 
There are many people who would say 
they would prefer death to blindness; but the 
nearer the approach of death, the greater becomes 
the comparison between the finality of the one 
and the affliction of the other. 

Those men, however, who have faced death in 
many frightful forms, and dodged it; suffered 
the horrors of its approach, yet cheated it; who 
have waited for its inevitable triumph, then 
slipped from its grasp; who have lived with it 
for days, parrying its thrust, evading its clutch; 
yet feeling the irresistible force of its power; men 
who have suffered these horrors and escaped with- 
out more than the loss of even the wonderful 
gift of sight, can afford to treat this affliction in a 
lesser degree, holding the sanctity of life as a 
thing precious and sacred beyond all things. 

Even the loss of God's great gift of sight ceases 
to become a burden or affliction in comparison 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

with the indescribable joy of life snatched from 
death. 

There are men, and we know them by the score, 
who are constantly looking out on life through 
the darkened windows of a dissatisfied existence; 
whose conscience is an enemy to their own happi- 
ness ; who look only on the dark side of life, made 
darker by their own disposition. 

Such men, and you can pick them out by their 
looks and expression, who build an artificial wall 
of trouble, to shut out the natural paradise of 
existence; these men who juggle with the joy of 
life until they feel they would sooner be dead, 
do not know, and do not realise the meaning of 
the life and death with which they trifle. 

Let us think only of the glory of life ; not of the 
trivial penalties which may be demanded of us 
in payment, and which we are so apt to magnify 
until we wonder whether the great gift of life is 
really worth while. 

Let us think not of our disadvantages, but of 
these great gifts which we are fortunate enough 
to possess; let us school ourselves to a high sense 
of gratitude for the gifts we possess, and even 
an affliction becomes easy to bear. 

148 



BLINDNESS 

Here I am, thirty-six years of age, in the prime 
of health, strength, and energy, and suddenly 
struck blind ! 

And what are my feelings ? Even such a seem- 
ing catastrophe does not appall me. I can no 
longer drive, run, or follow any of the vigorous 
sports, the love for which is so insistent in healthy 
manhood. I shall miss all these things, yet I 
am not depressed. 

Am I not better off, after all, than he who was 
born blind? With the loss of my sight I have 
become imbued with the gift of appreciation. 
What is my inconvenience compared with the 
affliction of being sightless from birth. 

For thirty-six years I had become accustomed 
to sights of the world, and now, though blind, I 
can walk in the garden in a sunny day; and my 
imagination can see it and take in the picture. 

I can talk to my friends, knowing what they 
look like, and by their conversation read the ex- 
pression on their faces. I can hear the traffic of 
a busy thoroughfare, and my mind will recognise 
the scene. 

I can even go to the play; hear the jokes and 
listen to the songs and music, and understand what 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

is going on without experiencing that feeling of 
mystery and wonder which must be the lot of 
him who has always been blind. 

And the greatest gift of all, my sense of grati- 
tude, that after passing through death, I am 
alive ! 



150 



CHAPTER XXIII 
THE WOMAN WHO WAITS 

THE TELEGRAPH BOY'S RAT-TAT. KILLED IN 
ACTION. WEEKS OF MOURNING 

TVTEANWHILE, what was transpiring at home ? 
What interpretation had been put upon my 
absence ? 

Many weeks later, after my first letter had 
reached home like a message from the dead, a 
post-card was handed to me from my father, 
which seemed to echo the sob of a broken heart. 
It was the first message to arrive from the Eng- 
land I loved so much, and my home, which I 
yearned for. 

Letters from every member of my family were 
hastening towards me; but all were delayed ex- 
cept the single post-card, which told me only too 
plainly of the tragedy at home which was the re- 
sult of my absence. 

The message, written in a shaky hand, ran 
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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

briefly, thus: "My son, for four weeks we have 
mourned you as dead; God bless you!" 

In the despair of my heart my blindness and 
my bonds of captivity seemed to grow greater. 
In that simple message I realised the terrible 
truth, the full significance of the tragedy which 
had followed my fall. 

What had been my suffering to theirs ? After 
all I was a soldier, and mine was a duty. But 
those who wait at home — what of them ? 

The letters which followed confirmed my worst 
fears. I trembled and cried like a child. 

How brave they had all been ! How unworthy 
seemed my life to warrant the heroic fortitude 
and silent suffering which these letters unfolded ! 
What were a few bullets compared with the pluck 
and silent self-sacrifice of the women of Britain, 
who were untrained to bear such shocks ? What 
physical pain could compare with such anguish as 
theirs ? 

The first intimation reached my home by a 
letter returned from France, undelivered, and 
bearing a slip containing these words, type- 
written: "Killed in action September 9." 

Three days later a knock at the door, and 
152 



THE WOMAN WHO WAITS 

a telegraph boy handed in a telegram which 
read: 

"Most deeply regret inform you Cap. H. G. 

Nobbs London Regiment, Killed in Action 

Sep. 9." 

and also another telegram: 

"The King & Queen deeply regret loss you 
and the Army have sustained by the death of 
Cap. Nobbs, in the service of his Country. 
Their Majestys deeply sympathise with you in 
your sorrow. 

"Keeper of the Privy Purse." 

Next morning my name appeared in the official 
casualty list under the heading: "Killed in 
Action." 

Letters followed from the front confirming my 
death, and even describing the manner of my death. 

Such things are unavoidable in modern war- 
fare; and only those who understand the condi- 
tions and the difficulties can appreciate the 
possibility of avoiding occasional errors. It is 
surprising to me that the errors in reporting 
casualties are not more frequent, and it speaks 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

well of the care given by those responsible for 
this task. 

It is extremely difficult, and occasional mis- 
takes are only too apt to be widely advertised 
and give a wrong impression. Think of the task 
of the hundreds and thousands of casualties ; and 
the errors, terrible though the suffering entailed 
may be, are comparatively insignificant. 

But I have led the reader away from my story. 

They thought me dead. Yes; killed in action. 
There was no getting away from it; no need for 
me to describe the tears and sorrow. Those who 
suffer must bear their sorrow in silence — more 
honour to them. 

Obituary notices appeared in the newspapers, 
and letters and telegrams of condolence poured in. 

My solicitors took possession of my belongings 
and explained their contents to my family. 

A firm of photographers who generously in- 
vite officers to have their portraits taken free of 
charge, now offered the plate for a consideration 
to the illustrated papers; and even as I write 
these lines many months later, my picture is 
dished up again in this week's issue of an illus- 
trated magazine as among the dead. 

iS4 



THE WOMAN WHO WAITS 

In short, during those few weeks which fol- 
lowed my fall, I became as dead and completely 
buried as modern conventions demanded. 

It is expensive to die and not be dead, for 
clothes of mourning cannot afterwards be hidden 
under any other disguises; and it is a peculiar 
feeling to be called upon to pay for your own 
funeral expenses. 

And when once you are officially dead it is 
very difficult to come officially to life again. 
Months have passed, and I am still waiting for 
the official correction to appear. 

As I walk through the streets of London my 
friends stare at me as though I were a ghost. I 
feel as though I am a living apology for the mis- 
take of others. 

To the illustrated magazine I have just referred 
to I wrote assuring the editor that I had every 
reason to believe he was wrong in his contention. 
He replied, enclosing my photograph, and asking 
me if I was sure I was not some other person, 
as the picture referred to an officer who was 
surely dead. 

Perhaps even now I am wrong. Yet, I ought to 
know. 

*55 



CHAPTER XXIV 

WARD 43, RESERVE LAZARETTE 5, 
HANOVER 

OCCUPANTS OF THE WARD. CHIVALRY OP 
THE AIR 

"OEFORE the war Reserve Lazarette 5 at 
Hanover was a military school. It is now 
used for wounded military prisoners, and for 
German soldiers suffering from venereal disease. 

The same operating-room is used for all pa- 
tients; the wounded prisoners receiving treat- 
ment in the morning, and the Germans in the 
afternoon. 

There is a fair-sized garden, not unattractive, 
and the wounded are permitted to take the fresh 
air, and to walk about freely, if they are able 
to do so. So are the German patients, and so 
are their visitors, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, 
from 2 till 4 in the afternoon. There is no sepa- 
ration of the two classes of patients, and honour 
must share the company of disgrace in her cap- 
tivity. 

1S6 



WARD 43, RESERVE LAZARETTE 5 

Ward 43 was a billiard-room in the old days, 
and the small-sized billiard-table is pushed against 
the wall and used as a table. There were nine 
beds in the ward; and four British and four 
French officers lay side by side in captivity. 

The friendship of the two great nations was 
reflected in the maimed and pain-ridden bodies 
of these soldiers lying side by side, helpless, un- 
complaining, but still champions of Anglo-French 
unity. Their cause is the same; their pain is 
the same; and side by side they lay, as side by 
side they had fallen. 

Of the French officers I got to know but little, 
for they could speak no English, and the English 
could speak no French. 

On my left was an officer of the Royal Flying 
Corps, Lieutenant Donelly. He had been brought 
to earth after a fight thirteen thousand feet in 
the air, against five German planes. With his 
left arm disabled and three fingers shot off his 
right hand, and his engine out of action, he nose- 
dived to the ground. A German aeroplane nose- 
dived after him, all the while firing as it dropped. 

With only a finger and thumb to manipulate 
his machine, he managed to effect a landing. 

i57 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

The moment earth was struck the firing ceased, 
and the Germans landing from their machines 
approached him and treated him courteously. 

There is a spirit of chivalry among those who 
fight in the air, as both sides can testify. The 
air alone is their arena, and neither side will 
continue a combat on terra firma. 

On my right was Lieutenant Rogan of the 
Royal Irish Regiment, a sturdy fellow, who had 
been in the Guards. 

He was attacking some Germans, who were 
putting up a stout resistance during the fight for 
Guinchy; and as he was rushing forward, a Ger- 
man threw a hand-grenade, which exploded in 
his face. His right eye was removed at St. 
Quentin, and he was slowly recovering the sight 
of the left. 

In the bed next to his was another young 
officer of the Royal Flying Corps, a boy about 
eighteen, very small, and only weighing about 
eight stone. Mabbitt was his name, Second 
Lieutenant Mabbitt; and he, too, had fought 
many thousand feet in the air against desperate 
odds, fracturing his leg in the fall. 

German airmen seem to make a practice of 
158 



WARD 43, RESERVE LAZARETTE 5 

waiting until a single English aeroplane appears 
in sight; then they ascend in a flight of five to 
attack, and woe betide the English airman who 
happens to be soaring above in a slow machine. 

Deeds of pluck are common on land and sea; 
but the heroic combats in the air are a new sen- 
sation, with unknown terrors realised in a single 
gasp; and the youth of our country defy it. Yet, 
who is there to tell their deeds if they fall ? 

Shortly after I arrived two British officers were 
brought in, Lieutenant Wishart of the Canadians, 
who had a bullet wound through his leg; and 
Second Lieutenant Parker, who had a hole in his 
leg as big as an apple, and who spent most of the 
day in declaring that he was as fit as a fiddle. 

But the occupant of the remaining bed was one 
who endeared himself to the hearts of all. He 
was Saniez (pronounced Sanyea), our orderly. 
But Saniez must have a chapter to himself. 



159 



CHAPTER XXV 

SANIEZ 

jy ESERVE LAZARETTE 5, Hanover, boasted 
of no hospital nurses. There was no tender 
touch of a feminine hand to administer to the 
comfort and alleviate the distress of the wounded. 
There was no delicate and nourishing diet to 
strengthen the weak; neither did we expect it. 
We were prisoners of war, and though our suffer- 
ings were great, we were still soldiers. 

But those who have passed through Ward 43 
will always look back with gratitude and admira- 
tion on one whose unselfish devotion, tender care, 
and magnificent spirit was an example and in- 
spiration to all of us. 

His name was Saniez, the orderly in charge of 
the ward; a Florence Nightingale, whose unceas- 
ing attention day and night, whose tender watch- 
fulness and devoted care and kindness made him 
loved and worshipped by the maimed and help- 
less prisoners who were placed under his charge. 

Saniez was no ordinary man. No reward was 
160 



SANIEZ 

his, except the heartfelt gratitude of those whom 
he tended. The wounded who passed through 
the ward left behind a debt of gratitude which 
could never be paid, and with a spirit of fortitude 
and courage created by his noble example. 

There are compensations for all suffering; and 
no greater compensation could any wish for than 
the devotion of Saniez. 

Saniez had suffered too, but would never speak 
of it. He had his moments of anguish and 
despair. He had a home, too; but his dreams 
he kept to himself, and his care he gave to 
others. 

Saniez was a Frenchman, a big, burly artillery- 
man, with eyes bright, laughing, and sympathetic. 

He had been captured nearly two years before; 
and suffered severely from the effects of frozen 
feet. Yet, painful as it must have been to get 
about, he seldom sat down. 

All through those long days and nights weak 
voices would call him: it was always, "Saniez, 
Saniez!" and slop, slop, slop, we would hear 
him in his slippered feet, moving down the ward, 
attending to one and then another. 

Saniez would be quiet and sympathetic, with 
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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

a voice soft and soothing; and the next moment, 
cheerful and boisterous. Captivity could not 
subdue Saniez, or make him anything else than a 
loyal French soldier. 

He would guard his patients against the clumsy 
touch of a German orderly like a tiger guarding 
its young. He would bribe or steal to obtain a 
little delicacy for his patients. 

He seemed to know but a single German word, 
which he used on every possible occasion to ex- 
press his disgust of the Germans. It was a slang 
word, but when Saniez used it, its single utter- 
ance was a volume of expression. It was nix, 
and when Saniez said nix, I knew he was shaking 
his woolly head in disgust. 

Saniez had a marvellous voice, and when he 
sang he held us spell-bound, and he knew it. I 
do not speak French, and could not understand 
his words, but his expression was wonderful; 
and he would fling his arms about in frantic ges- 
ticulation. 

When Saniez sang he seemed to lift himself 
into a different atmosphere; he was back again 
in France; his songs all seemed about his country 
and his home. He seemed to rouse himself into 

162 



SANIEZ 

a sudden spirit of defiance, and then his voice 
would grow soft and pathetic; and then slop, slop, 
slop, in his slippered feet, he would hurry off to 
a bedside to fix a bandage or administer a drink 
of water. 

Every morning German soldiers could be heard 
marching past our windows, singing their national 
songs. We listened; Saniez would stop his work. 
What we wanted to say we would leave to Saniez, 
as broom in hand and eyes of fire he would wait 
until their voices died away in the distance, and 
then, with a fierce shake of his head he would 
shout: "Boche! Nix!" and, flinging his arms 
about his head, would sing the "Marseillaise." 

One evening, and I remember it well, though 
no pen of mine can adequately describe the soul- 
stirring picture — we had a concert in Ward 43. 
Four British and four French officers — a symbol 
of the Entente Cordiale — lay side by side in 
their cots, while convalescent prisoners from other 
wards sat in front to cheer them with song and 
music. 

The Allies seemed well represented: An Eng- 
lish Tommy with a guitar sang a comic song; a 
Russian soldier with a three-cornered string in- 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

strument, sang a folk-song of his native land; a 
Belgian soldier played the violin; and Saniez 
sang for France. 

The applause that greeted the finish of each 
song was of a mixed kind; for those whose arms 
were maimed would shout, and those who could 
not shout would bang a chair or clap their hands. 
It was a patriotic and inspiring scene, and even 
the German orderly, coming in to see what was 
going on, was tempted to stop and listen. 

We felt we were no longer prisoners; the spirit 
of the Allies was unconquerable. 

Enthusiasm reached its highest pitch when 
Saniez brought it to a dramatic conclusion. 
Saniez had just finished a soul-inspiring song of 
his homeland. His audience could not withhold 
their applause until he finished, and Saniez could 
not restrain his spirit until the end of the ap- 
plause. He suddenly threw up his arms, and at 
the top of his voice burst forth into the "Mar- 
seillaise," and the German orderly bolted out of 
the door. 

Then the concert party ran to their dormitories ; 
the lights were turned out, and we sought safety 
in sleep. 

164 




Captain Nobbs after his release from the German prison. 



SANIEZ 

We used to ask Saniez about his home; and he 
seemed to grow quiet and confident. His home, 
he said, was about three miles behind the German 
line. 

Some one suggested that it was in a dangerous 
place, as the British were advancing, and no 
house near the line could escape untouched; but 
Saniez was confident. 

No ! shells could not possibly harm it. His 
wife and sister lived there; it was his home. He 
was a prisoner, but whatever happened to him, the 
combined fury of the nations could not touch 
his home. 

Saniez ! Saniez ! May you never awaken from 
your dream ! 



165 



CHAPTER XXVI 
LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 

HOSPITAL DIET. INTERVIEWED BY A GERMAN 
DOCTOR. DISCHARGED FROM HOSPITAL 

npHE diet in hospital can hardly be described 
as suitable for invalids. At the same time 
it was substantial as compared with what is re- 
ceived in prison camps. For breakfast we re- 
ceived coffee, with two very small, crusty rolls, 
each about the size of a tangerine orange; each 
roll cut in half, and a slight suspicion of jam placed 
between; for dejeuner one cup of coffee, one roll, 
and some very strong cheese, quite unfit to eat. 
The dinner was usually quite good, consisting of 
soup, a little meat and vegetables, and stewed 
apples or gooseberries. At 3 o'clock a cup of 
coffee and a small roll; at 6 o'clock supper, con- 
sisting of tea without milk, strong cheese, or Ger- 
man sausage or brawn, and a slice of bread. 

For this diet we paid eighty marks per month. 

An officer receives pay from the German Gov- 
166 



LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 

ernment on the following scale: lieutenant, sixty- 
marks per month; captain, one hundred marks 
per month. The German Government recover 
the payments from the English Government, and 
it is charged against the officers ' pay in England. 

No food is supplied free to officers either in 
hospital or camp; and they cannot purchase 
anything beyond the regular issue. 

With the exception of the dinner, I found the 
food of very little use to me for the first week or 
two, as having lost the power in my jaw, and being 
unable to open it more than half an inch, I couldn't 
tackle the rolls, and what couldn't be eaten had 
to be left; there was no substitute. 

There was another diet, in which the coffee 
was replaced by hot milk, which would have been 
very desirable, except that the dinner consisted 
of some filthy substance, which was very unpala- 
table. 

For the first week, therefore, I had practically 
only one meal a day, the dinner; but afterwards, 
by dint of changing from one diet to another I 
managed to get the dinner of No. i diet, and 
the milk of No. 2. 

There was a canteen in the hospital where 
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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

cigarettes, chocolates, biscuits, and eggs were 
offered for sale. 

The biscuits were never in stock; the chocolate, 
though high in price, was so thin that there was 
nothing of it; and the cigarettes were unsmokable. 

It was a sorry day when we could get no more 
eggs. We used to depend upon the eggs for sup- 
per; for the cheese was uneatable, the brawn 
suspicious, and the sausage like boiled linoleum. 
German sausage at the best of time is open to 
argument; but German sausage in a country 
which has been blockaded for two and a half 
years is worthy of serious thought. 

The surgical attention was good, though the 
Russian prisoners who assisted were apt to be 
rough; and as neither the German doctor nor his 
Russian assistant could understand each other, 
and the wounded could understand neither, nor 
be understood in turn, the situation was some- 
times difficult. 

The doctor visited each bed at 8 a. m. every 
morning to inquire the condition of the wounded ; 
but whatever you had to say — which of course 
he did not understand — the reply was always : 
"Goot, Goot." 

168 



LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 

On one occasion we saw flags flying over the 
city, and that evening for supper we were given 
a hard-boiled egg. We were told it was the 
Empress's birthday. We made anxious inquiries 
as to when the Kaiser and the Crown Prince 
would have a birthday. 

A few days after I arrived at Hanover, my right 
eye was removed, and the following day the 
doctor told me, through an interpreter, that I 
should be sent back to England. I asked when 
I should be sent, and was told in three or four 
weeks. 

It was about this time that I began to develop 
an unsatiable appetite for sweet things. I have 
found that many have had the same experience, 
after a period of privation following upon their 
wounds. I would buy up all the jam, chocolate, 
and toffy I could lay my hands on, which came 
in parcels to other prisoners. When I wrote home 
for parcels to be sent to me, I hardly mentioned 
food, which afterwards became so necessary, 
but asked for sweet stuff. 

But what I needed more urgently than any- 
thing else was money. When I was picked up 
the only cash I had on me was two francs, and this 

169 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

I exchanged for a mark and sixty pfennigs, 
which, with five marks I was able to borrow, 
kept me going for a while. But it was soon gone, 
and I found myself without a sou, and no pay 
due for six weeks. 

About ten days after I arrived at Hanover I 
was able to sit out in the garden, and from then 
on I began to mend. 

Saniez used to dress me, and his watchful eye 
was upon me wherever I went. 

Sometimes of an afternoon I used to sit by the 
fire. I used to like sitting by the fire, because its 
warmth misled me into thinking I could distin- 
guish the light. If I happened to be rather quiet 
Saniez would come to my side, and I would feel 
that he was watching me. Then he would speak, 
and each would find some word to make the other 
understand : 

' ' Cigarette, Capitaine ? ' ' 

"Oui, Saniez." 

He would take one of his own cigarettes, put it 
in my mouth and light it. 

I could neither taste nor smell it ; but it pleased 
Saniez, so I took it. 

"Tres bien, Capitaine, puff, puff!" 
170 



LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 

"Oui, Saniez, tres bien." 

"Tres bien, good. Monsieur Parker says, 
'Trays beens.' Joke, ah, good joke!" 

He would go away, but still watching me from 
a distance, would presently come back again, and 
placing his large hand on my shoulder, would 
say: 

"Couche, Capitaine?" and leading me to my 
bed would lay me on it, and carefully tuck me in 
for the night. 

There was a German non-commissioned officer 
employed in the hospital who was really a good 
sort. He could speak good English, having 
worked in English hotels before the war. 

He would sometimes sit by my bed for a 
chat : 

"Where were you wounded, Captain?" he 
asked one day. 

"Leuze Wood on the Somme," I replied. 

"Somme dreadful place, dreadful war, Captain." 

"Very!" 

"It is not fighting now; it is murder, both sides 
murder — yah." 

"Have you been to the front yet ?" 
"No; don't want to, either; don't like soldier- 
171 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

ing. German people sick of war; but got to do 
what we are told. Captain, you and I could set- 
tle it in five minutes." 

"I'm not so sure; it's nearly settled me." 

As the weeks passed by I began anxiously and 
earnestly to wait for news of my exchange; but 
three weeks went, and the fourth and fifth week 
passed, and still no news. About the seventh 
week Saniez burst into the ward one morning and 
rushed up to my bed. 

1 ' Bon jour, Capitaine. Good, good ! Office, 
quick," and he began hurriedly dressing me. 

I was to report to the office at once. I had been 
waiting for this, and dreaming of this moment for 
weeks. 

Saniez knew it too, and as I went through the 
door I heard him shout: 

' ' Angleterre, Capitaine ; tres bien ! ' ' 

I waited outside the office for about half an 
hour. Wishart of the Canadians was inside, and 
presently he came out to fetch me: 

'They want to see you inside. Who do you 
think is in there?" 

"I don't know — who?" 

"Doctor Pohlmann. He supervises all the 
172 



LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 

prison camps belonging to the Tenth Army. 
We've got to go to a prisoners' camp." 

My hopes were dashed to the ground. 

He led me in, and I sat down before Doctor 
Pohlmann, who spoke excellent English, and ex- 
plained that he was a doctor of languages. 

He filled up a form, taking from me particulars 
of my name, regiment, and the usual details; and 
then, turning to Wishart, told him to go. 

I began to feel that I was in for a rough time. 
Why did Doctor Pohlmann wish to speak to me 
alone. 

I sat before him in silence, too disappointed at 
the turn events had taken to care what happened. 
But as soon as the door had closed he turned 
towards me, and his remarks surprised me beyond 
measure. Not a single question did he put to 
me to elicit information. 

"Captain, you are quite blind?" 

"Yes, quite." 

"I am sorry; I did not know you were blind." 

He seemed quite sympathetic. Not that I 
wanted it from him, yet so relieved was I to escape 
cross-examination that I felt quite bucked. 

He continued: "The hospital people say you 
173 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

are ready to be sent away. When you leave here 
you come under my charge. They did not tell 
me you were blind. I have no proper place to 
put you; I do not know where to send you." 

"If you will allow me, I can suggest a 
place." 

"Ah, yes, I know, England. Of course you will 
be sent there in time, but in the meantime I must 
take charge of you. I will send you wherever 
you like. You can choose your own camp. What 
camp would you like to go to ?" 

"What camps have you got ?" 

"I have Gottisleau, Osnabruck, Blenhorst." 

"Well, it's very good of you to give me the 
choice; but they all sound alike to me. How can 
I choose ?" 

"Have you any friends in either of them?" 

"Well, really the names are unintelligible; I 
couldn't even repeat them. Lieutenant Rogan 
was sent away last week. Where did he go ?" 

"Ah, he went to Osnabruck. Good camp! 
Good commandant ! I will send you and Wishart 
there, and I will arrange to put you three in one 
room together. If I can do anything for you at 
any time, let me know." 

174 



LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 

The interview was over. He was a plausible 
fellow, and he probably knew his job. 

When I was getting ready to leave the hospital 
Saniez insisted on packing my clothes himself. I 
thought nothing about it at the time, but when I 
unpacked my clothes in camp I found concealed 
inside a small packet of sugar. Then I under- 
stood Saniez. 

Wishart and I were told we could either walk 
to the station or pay for the hire of a motor-car. 
We rode to the station, laughing and talking, and 
smoking cigars which we obtained from the can- 
teen. 



175 



CHAPTER XXVII 
OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 

EMPLOYMENT OF PRISONERS. PARCELS. MEN OF 
MONS 

T T 7*HEN I first became aware that there was a 
probability of my being exchanged I set to 
work to gather what information I could. 

I came into contact with a good many private 
soldiers, and in conversation with them I became 
deeply interested in the commercial value of pris- 
oners of war ; for it appeared to me clearly evident 
that in a country where there were over a million 
prisoners, possibilities were unlimited; and the 
German authorities appeared, with businesslike 
organisation, to be taking the fullest advantage 
of their opportunities. 

The unprecedented scale upon which prisoners 
have been made during the present war has 
opened up a problem unique in the annals of his- 
tory. The more prisoners you take the more 
mouths you have to feed; and the greater be- 

176 



OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 

comes the man power necessary for their super- 
vision. 

With the ever-increasing number of prisoners 
the problem grows in enormity, and can either 
develop into embarrassing proportions, or by sci- 
entific handling can be turned to advantage. 

In England for over two years we have herded 
our prisoners behind bayonets and barbed wire. 
The financial resources of the country have been 
poured out to feed idle hands, supplying food 
without repayment, at a time when the food and 
labour problems of the nation are becoming its 
most serious problems. 

For over two years we have allowed the 
question to slide into obscurity, until to-day in 
our own country the only part of the commu- 
nity which has no anxiety or participation in 
the problem of living and daily sustenance is the 
German prisoner in our midst; and yet to-day a 
large part of what should be our fighting power 
is kept from the firing-line to supply the needs 
of the nation and feed the mouths of our idle 
prisoners. 

It has never occurred to us, or if it has we 
have ignored it, that without contravening the 

177 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

law of nations, prisoners can be made to feed 
themselves, and be employed in any industry, 
provided they are not put to work connected 
with the war. 

It has never occurred to us that we have in 
our midst many of the trade secrets of a country 
which for generations has been our rival in com- 
merce. 

It has never occurred to us that Germany has 
in her midst men who hold the trade secrets of 
our empire, and is learning them day by day by 
the employment of our men in her industries. 

If we neglect this problem any longer we may 
find that when the world resumes its normal 
trade activity Germany, on this point at any rate, 
will have scored a commercial victory. 

The nations of the world are at war. But the 
armies of to-day are civilian armies, comprising 
men of industrial and commercial education, and 
the prisoners of to-day are men of commercial and 
industrial value. 

Our adversaries have been quick to recognise 
this. We seem to be still imbued with the idea 
that the German soldier in our midst is simply a 
fighting machine ! 

178 



OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 

So he is. But when the time came for the civilian 
to take up arms and supplement the professional 
fighting force, there fell into our hands an indus- 
trial fighting machine in the guise of a military 
prisoner. 

We have the impression that a military prisoner 
is an individual whose one desire is to escape and 
jump at our throats; and that the safety of the 
nation compels us to stand over him with a bay- 
onet and regard his every movement with sus- 
picion. 

Yes, I do not deny that a very large number 
of prisoners in our midst would be glad to get 
back to their homeland, especially if there was 
no further prospect of having to face the British 
in the firing-line. But keep a man idle for months 
behind barbed wire, like an animal in a cage, and 
you encourage his desire to escape far more than 
if you diverted his mind by industrial employ- 
ment. 

Have we not a barbed wire supplied by nature 
completely surrounding our country ? Are we not 
on an island ? 

I had many opportunities of talking with our 
men in Germany and of gaining information as 

179 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

to the manner in which the German authorities 
were taking advantage of the problem we avoid, 
or occupy our time in idle discussion. 

I will take one concrete example. In Hameln 
Lager the commandant has charge of 50,000 pris- 
oners, of which 30,000 are "living out" ! They 
are working out in commandos on the farms, in 
the factories, in the workshops; in large batches, 
small batches, and even singly. 

I met one man who had been employed alone 
in a wheelwright's shop. He was a wheelwright 
by trade. How many wheelwrights' shops are 
there in England which could do to-day with one 
of the wheelwrights we are keeping idle behind 
barbed wire ? 

What information did that man's employer gain 
by the way the work was done ? How simple the 
method of obtaining the labour: simply go to the 
labour bureau attached to the imprisonment camp 
nearest to your workshop, and ask for a wheel- 
wright. You keep your industry going, and thus 
in the only practical way keep open the job for 
the man who is called to the colours. 

The employer pays the man no wages, but the 
local trade-union rate of wage is paid to the com- 

180 



OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 

mandant who supplies him. Thirty thousand 
prisoners from a single camp contributing to the 
industry of the nation, and the wages of 30,000 
prisoners contributing to the cost of the war. 
The prisoner receives through the commandant 30 
pfennigs (3d.) per day, and is glad of the em- 
ployment. 

A very large number of prisoners are employed 
as agricultural labourers, and it is quite reasonable 
to suppose that all the food supplied to the pris- 
oners, such as it is, is grown by prisoner labour. 

I was told by men who had worked on farms 
that they were compelled to work from 4 in the 
morning until 9 at night. In some cases only 
one or two were employed on small farms. 

I asked those men why they did not embrace 
the opportunity to make their escape. But they 
said that while the work was hard they preferred 
it ; as they lived with the farmer, who treated them 
well if they worked well. They ate at the farm- 
er's table, and had no non-commissioned officers 
to bully them; whereas, if they attempted to 
escape and were caught they would be sent to 
work in the mines or other equally unpopular 
task. 

181 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

Large numbers are employed in the sugar-re- 
fineries, coal-mines, and salt-mines, the latter task 
being the most dreaded; for with the food they 
were given their health broke down within a few 
months. 

The English prisoner said that when the party 
he was with first arrived at the mine and saw 
what they had to do they refused to work. Their 
guard thereupon threatened them, and when they 
still refused they were taken outside one by one, 
and the remainder would hear a shot fired, and 
then another would be taken out. 

It was a fake. The men could not be intimi- 
dated, and they were sent back to the Lager. 

It was on another occasion that the man I am 
referring to was put to work in the mine. 

I was asked by another if I knew anything 
about 200 German prisoners being sent back to 
work in France, because they were not allowed 
to work in England. He said that when the 
Germans heard about it they took 200 of our men 
from Doberitz camp and sent them to work in 
Poland as a reprisal. 

The work there may not have been very much 
harder, but it was a great hardship upon our men, 

182 



OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 

because there would be a considerable delay in 
their parcels of food reaching them from England, 
and meantime they had to subsist on the scanty 
fare supplied by their captors. 

The men seemed to be getting parcels on a very 
liberal scale. Some were getting more than others, 
but they divided up by eating in messes of four 
or six, or some such number. 

I did not hear of many complaints of parcels 
being undelivered, though in some cases parcels 
were missed. But so far as I could ascertain they 
were not withheld in any deliberate or systematic 
manner; and when one comes to consider the 
enormous number handled and the probability of 
parcels getting lost through insecure packing, the 
number of complaints I heard of seemed com- 
paratively insignificant. 

The Russian prisoners seemed to be the least 
provided for, and parcels for them were very rare. 
They lived or rather starved on the German ra- 
tions ; and when men have to work or remain in the 
open air all day such a ration was a form of torture. 

When the watery liquid of potato water called 
soup was issued from the kitchens fatigue parties 
were paraded to draw the issue for each mess. 

183 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

The British prisoners were not altogether de- 
pendent on this ration, and would let the Russian 
prisoners carry the dixy for them, and in return 
they would be given a cup of soup by the British 
Tommies. So hungry were the Russians for this 
little "extra" that hundreds of them would wait 
for hours in the cold on the off-chance of a few 
getting the job. 

One cannot speak with these British Tommies 
and hear of their hardships without feeling a 
profound admiration for their indomitable spirit. 
You can take a British soldier prisoner, send him 
far from the protection of his country, but he is 
British wherever he goes and his courage and re- 
sourcefulness cannot be broken. 

Whenever I met a man who had been a prisoner 
since the beginning of the war, I made a point of 
getting his story to ascertain the truth about the 
barbarities I had read of. 

There was no mistaking these men. I could 
not see them but I seemed instinctively to recog- 
nise, and whether it was my imagination or not 
I cannot tell ; but their manner seemed distinctive 
and they spoke like men who had suffered much 
and were harbouring a just grievance, and lived 

184 



OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 

for the day when they would revenge themselves. 
As one man put it to me: 

"If we ever see a German in England when we 
get back we will kill him." 

These men were taken at Mons; captured, most 
of them, by sacrificing themselves in rear-guard 
fighting to save the main British army. 

These men have been in captivity for two and 
a half years. Just think of it ! But do we think 
of it enough, or have we forgotten it ? 

The British Tommy has an individuality which 
is not always understood. Ask him in an official 
way to give evidence of his treatment, and he will 
sit tight and say not a word. Take out your note- 
book to write down his evidence and he can think 
of nothing, but all the same he knows a lot. 

I know this to be true ; for after I was exchanged 
I spoke to a soldier who had been exchanged at 
the same time, and he said that a Government 
official had been round to question the men on 
the treatment they had received in Germany. 
During our conversation he told me that 200 of 
our men had been put to work in a Zeppelin fac- 
tory. I asked him if he had given this in evi- 
dence, but he said: 

185 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"No, not likely; they got nothing out of me." 

I asked him why not, for it was his duty. But 
he said they would only have asked him a lot 
more questions to try and tie him up in a knot. 

When I came across a soldier who was captured 
at the beginning of the war I used to invite him 
to my room when no one was about. We would 
sit in front of the fire and drink a cup of cocoa 
and smoke a pipe. 

I never asked him questions, but let him talk 
as he felt like it. There were generally one or 
two others in the room, and when we began to 
feel we knew each other and were chums together 
in adversity, he would tell his story in his own 
way. 

I met these men in Hanover Hospital, Osna- 
bruck camp, and Blenhorst camp. I will not 
publish their names for fear of paining their rela- 
tives; but I have their names and the names of 
witnesses who heard the stories, which I will re- 
late in my next chapter. 



186 



CHAPTER XXVIII 

STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 

''I A HE statements which follow, and which were 
made to me while I was a prisoner of war in 
Germany, are not from picked soldiers who hap- 
pened to have sensational stories. They were the 
only men whom I met who were prisoners in the 
early days. 

Being blind myself, I could not, of course, see 
the men I was speaking to, but their tone im- 
pressed me very much as being men who had suf- 
fered in silence. 

It was necessary for me to study very carefully 
what they said and impress it on my memory ; and 
I have committed their statements to writing im- 
mediately on my release, for to carry written 
statements over the frontier was entirely out of 
the question. 

I have put down nothing which was not told 
to me ; neither have I tried to embellish or enlarge 
upon the statements made, or frame the words 

187 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

of the men in any way that might give an exag- 
gerated impression of what occurred. 

It is quite possible, however, that one or two 
incidents which I have reported from one man 
may be part of the story of one of the others. But 
it can be taken as an absolute fact that, taken as 
a whole, the statements are a true recital of these 
men's own description of their experience. 

The men were in no way excited. I obtained 
the information when chatting in the ordinary 
way over a pipe of tobacco, whenever the men 
had an opportunity of coming to my room to have 
a chat. 

The Story of Private , West Kent 

Regiment 

"I was captured at Mons, sir. Been here over 
two years now. Things are not so bad now as 
they were at first. 

"I've seen some things which I shan't easily 
forget. I've been keeping them to myself because 
we dare not talk of them. 

"Some of the fellows have had a terrible time. 
When the war is over any German who is met in 
England by any prisoners of war will have a 

188 



STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 

rough passage. There won't be any need to hold 
ourselves back any longer. My goodness, sir, 
they'll never get away alive ! 

"Not long after I was captured 70 English sol- 
diers were taken away from the Lager one day. 
They never knew where they were going. They 
were taken to a munition factory; and when they 
found out where they were they passed the word 
along to refuse to work. 

"When the Germans told them what they had 
to do, they refused. Their guards threatened 
them, and said it would be the worse for them if 
they didn't; but they wouldn't budge. 

"Then they were taken out and made to stand 
in a row against a wall; and a firing-party was 
drawn up in front of them with loaded rifles, but 
not one of them flinched. 

"They were told that unless they went to 
work they would be shot, and although the firing- 
party was standing in front of them not one of 
them would budge. 

"The threat was not carried out, and they were 
sent back to the Lager. 

"Before we started getting parcels we had a 
terrible time trying to live on the food they gave 

189 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

us. All they gave us was a cup of coffee and two 
slices of black bread in the morning; and for din- 
ner and supper a basin of hot potato water. It 
was so thin and weak it was just like water that 
potatoes had been boiled in." 

The soldier whose statement is given above 
has since been exchanged to Switzerland, owing 
to an injury to his sight, caused by the work he 
was employed upon while a prisoner. 

The Story of Private of the Leicester 

Regiment 

"I was captured during the retreat in August, 
1914. 

1 ' My Company was left behind as a rear-guard, 
to enable the rest of the battalion to get away. 
Our trench was only about two feet deep. Al- 
though the Germans were coming on very fast 
and in enormous numbers, we were not allowed 
to retire. 

"The Germans charged us three times. We 
lost all our officers, and although we kept on 
fighting they came on in such large numbers it 
must have been the main body, for they were all 

190 



STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 

round us, and most of the fellows were killed or 
wounded. 

"They had their revenge on us, too, when they 
got us, for the German soldiers who were told to 
look after us did terrible things. They took us 
one by one and made us run the gauntlet. 

"I was bruised all over when I got through, 
and so were the other fellows. 

"One chap when he was running the gauntlet 
was struck in the face by the butt of a rifle; his 
nose was smashed and his face covered in blood, 
and he fell to the ground insensible. They threw 
him in a ditch, because they thought he was 
dead; but he was able to crawl out next morn- 
ing. 

"It was awful, that first night, and they didn't 
know what to do with us. They made us stand 
the whole night through in a loose wire entangle- 
ment, so that we couldn't walk about or sit down; 
and it rained like anything all night long. 

"Then we were put in cattle trucks and sent 
into Germany, and for the first two days they 
did not give us any food or water. 

"On the second day we stopped at a station 
and a woman came towards us with a large can 

191 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

of soup, and we thought we were going to be 
fed; but she brought it right up to us, and said: 
'Ugh, dirty Englanders,' and poured it on to the 
line. 

"I was taken to Soltau Lager; and the food 
they gave us consisted of a cup of acorn coffee 
in the morning and a small piece of black bread, 
which had to last all day, and wouldn't make 
more than two good slices. 

' ' For dinner we got a basin of very thin potato 
soup ; sometimes we got a potato in it, and some- 
times we didn't. For supper we got a cup of 
coffee, and we were supposed to make the bread 
do for both breakfast and supper. 

"The prisoners were sent out from Soltau in 
working parties to farmers, factories, and coal 
mines and salt mines. The salt mines were 
dreaded most, and fellows who had been working 
there for two or three months looked dreadful. 
In fact, they could not keep up there longer than 
that; they got too ill. 

"I was sent into a salt mine myself. The hours 
are not long, because it is impossible to stay down 
many hours at a time, and we were generally 
brought up about one o'clock. They did not keep 

192 



STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 

me in the mine long, because they found I was of 
no use for the work. 

"It's not so bad on the farms, although you 
have to work from about 4 o'clock till 8 or 9 at 
night. But the food is better, as you generally 
live at the farmer's table, and have the same as 
he does. 

"When prisoners are sent in working parties, 
the employers have to pay the German Govern- 
ment the same wages he usually pays a man, and 
the prisoners receive from the German Govern- 
ment 30 pfennings (about 3d.) per day." 

"Did the American Consul ever visit the 
lagar? " I asked. 

"Yes, but only once when I was there." 

"Were you free to make any complaints to 
him if you wished ?" 

"Two of the fellows did; but they got punished 
for it. 

"Before he visited the lager a notice was put 
up that the Commandant did not consider there 
was any reason for complaint, and any man 
making a complaint would be given 14 days' 
imprisonment. 

"When he called we were drawn up on parade 
i93 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

in four companies, and stood to attention, while 
he passed down the line, asking if there were any 
complaints. 

1 ' By his side was the Commandant and another 
German officer." 

The Story of Private op the Norfolk 

Regiment 

"I came out with the original Expeditionary 
Force, and was in the retreat from Mons, but was 
not captured until October, 19 14. 

' ' The German soldiers who captured me treated 
me quite well. They gave me some of their ra- 
tions, and allowed me to attend to our wounded. 

"I had just bandaged up the leg of a man in 
the Cheshire Regiment, who had half his foot 
blown off, when all the prisoners were ordered to 
the rear. 

"A German officer came up and ordered us both 
to get back; but I pointed out that the Cheshire 
man was too badly wounded to be moved without 
help. He ordered me to undo the bandage, and 
when he saw the condition of the wound, he drew 
his revolver and shot him dead. He then ordered 
me to get back. 

194 



STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 

"We were then sent into Germany, and when 
we stopped at the Railway Stations school chil- 
dren were paraded on the platform and threw 
things at us. 

"We were given nothing to eat, and at one 
station we appealed to a clergyman, who spoke 
English; but he said that only German soldiers 
should be fed, and turned away. 

"I was sent to Hameln Lager. I was several 
times sent out with working parties, and we were 
sometimes treated very roughly, especially when 
there was only an under officer in charge of us. 

"The job I liked best was working for a farmer. 
Sometimes you get hold of a decent chap, who 
will treat you well, if you suit him. The work is 
hard and the hours very long, but you live with 
the family, and food is much better than what 
you get in camp; especially as some of the farm- 
ers have food concealed. 

"The under officers are very rough, and stop 
at nothing. 

' ' There was a notice up in the lager which said 
that no man has any right to refuse to work, and 
that only the laws of the Imperial German Gov- 
ernment were recognised; and if any man refused 

195 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

to do what he was told, the guards had authority 
to use their rifles." 

"Did they ever use them ?" I asked. 

"I never saw them myself; but a man came 
into the lager one day who said that just before 
he was moved one of the men was being badgered 
about by his guards, until he at last turned round 
and knocked one down. The guards immediately 
ran their bayonets into him, and he died next day. 

"The American Consul visited our camp shortly 
afterwards, and this man told him about it, and 
was informed the matter was already known, and 
was being investigated. I do not know if any- 
thing came of it. 

"Another little trick which they used to em- 
ploy to force men to work in the mines and other 
places was to take them out one by one under an 
armed guard. The rest of us would hear a shot 
fired, and then they would take another; a shot 
would be fired, and so on. But we soon got on 
to that, because we found it was a fake. 

"About ioo men were taken away from the 
lager in the early part of the war to work in a 
factory, but when they found it was a munition 
factory they refused to work. They were each 

196 



STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 

sentenced to twelve or fifteen months' imprison- 
ment. I know this for a fact, because I have 
spoken to the men. They were very badly 
treated, and one of them is in hospital to-day, 
insane." 

The Story of Private of the Middle- 
sex Regiment, Told Me in 
Blenhurst Camp 

"I was at Soltau Lager for a long time before 
we came here. We used to get one loaf of black 
bread a day (2 lbs.) between 10 men. The 
only food we got was some sort of coffee for 
breakfast, and the same for supper. For dinner 
we had a basin of soup, which was almost undrink- 
able, some thin washy stuff; occasionally we got 
some potatoes. 

"In the early part of the war there were about 
60 of our fellows sent to work in a munition fac- 
tory. But when they got there and saw what 
they had to do, they refused. They were threat- 
ened with all kinds of things to make them work, 
and then they were lined up against a wall, and 
a number of German soldiers stood in front of 
them, and told them that if they didn't work, they 

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would be shot. Then they made a show of load- 
ing, and brought their rifles up to the shoulders. 
When our men still refused they were taken into 
a building and locked up two or three in a room; 
and left there for 3 or 4 days without food or 
water or convenience of any kind." 

I asked Private if he was quite sure of 

this statement and the length of time, as the 
men would be reduced to a state of absolute 
starvation. 

"I am quite sure about it," he said, "and as 
for the men being starved, I can only tell you 
that they were found curled up on the floor, 
gnawing at their finger-nails. 

"When the Commandant let them out he said 
he was going to send them back to their lager, 
as he admired their pluck, and didn't think 
Englishmen had so much in them." 



198 



CHAPTER XXIX 
OSNABRUCK 

ARRIVAL IN CAMP. THE CANTEEN. DAILY 
ROUTINE. RATIONS. PARCELS. NEWS 

T T TE looked forward to the journey with a great 
deal of pleasure, not that I could see where 
I was going, but the sensation of travelling was 
a pleasant change. 

We had about half an hour to wait for our 
train at the station, to the intense interest of a 
crowd of 60 or 70 peasants, who gathered around 
us and gazed in open-mouthed wonder. 

As a matter of fact I was quite unaware that 
we were the centre of attraction. I thought we 
were standing quite alone. It is not a disadvan- 
tage to be blind sometimes. 

We had a guard with us of one soldier with a 
revolver in his belt, which no doubt was fully 
loaded, though we did not trouble him to prove 
it. 

We were placed in a very comfortable second- 
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class carriage, quite equal to an English first-class 
carriage. German officers also appear to travel 
second class; and on all the journeys I made in 
Germany, I was always treated on an equality 
in this respect. 

Half-way through the journey we had to 
change, and had to wait about three-quarters of 
an hour for a connection. We were glad of this, 
as we were looking forward to a meal in the sta- 
tion restaurant. But we were doomed to dis- 
appointment. On entering the restaurant there 
were plenty of tables and chairs, but to all appear- 
ances nothing to eat. 

We sat down at a table in company with our 
escort, and Wishart went over to the counter to 
order a hot meal, but could not make himself 
understood. After energetically ordering every 
dish he could think of, including eggs and bacon, 
and emphasising his wishes by violent gesticula- 
tions, he returned unhappily to the table and 
sought the assistance of the guard, who was made 
to understand that in England the object of en- 
tering a restaurant is for the purpose of getting 
something to eat. 

We were finally provided with a cup of coffee, 
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OSNABRUCK 

a piece of cheese, and a slice of very stale and un- 
interesting bread. 

We arrived at Osnabruck station at about o 
p. m., and were placed in a four-wheel cab, our 
guards sitting opposite us, with another soldier, 
who met us at the station, sitting on the box 
seat, thus attracting the attention of the passers- 
by and conjecture as to the distinguished occu- 
pants of the cab, whose cigars by this time were 
unfortunately exhausted. 

We had a drive of about four miles, for Osna- 
bruck camp is situated on the outskirts of the 
town; and we were greeted on arrival by a re- 
quest from the cabby for ten marks. 

After having been in daily expectation of a 
voyage to England, my arrival at Osnabruck 
camp gave me a fit of the blues; and I felt like 
one who enters a prison to undergo a term of 
penal servitude. 

We knocked at the outer gate, which was se- 
curely locked, and were challenged by a sentry, 
who was answered by our guard. There was 
really no need to challenge us, for as far as Wishart 
and I were concerned, we were perfectly willing 
to remain outside the domain of his authority. 

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We heard a clatter of rifles, as the guard was 
turned out to welcome our visit, and after an 
examination of our papers to make sure that 
we had the right to enter, we were marched 
across the courtyard and stopped before a very 
large door. More knocking and a noise as of 
bolts being drawn back, and we entered the 
building. 

As the door was closed and bolted behind me, 
I felt like one who was losing his freedom for 
ever in the dungeons of a mighty fortress. 

We were led into the canteen, and the canteen 
manager supplied us with a cup of tea and a 
slice of bread and margarine — the margarine 
being a rare luxury for a prison camp. 

We were next taken into an office and searched 
and our money exchanged for canteen money. 
This precaution is always taken, so that if a pris- 
oner escapes he is not likely to have any nego- 
tiable money upon him. 

I thought the soldiers who searched us were 
very fair, for seeing I was blind, they allowed 
Wishart to see exactly the money I had upon 
me, so that there could be no dispute. As a mat- 
ter of fact I handed out the money myself. 

202 



OSNABRUCK 

They did not search me, but asked me if I had 
anything on me which should be given up, and 
now I come to think of it, although others were 
always rigorously searched, I do not ever remem- 
ber having been searched myself. They always 
took my word for it; perhaps it was because I 
was blind and they thought I was harmless. 

We were then taken up to a room on the second 
floor. Doctor Pohlmann was as good as his 
word, and a room for three was provided, Rogan 
being in possession. 

Osnabruck camp is part of a cavalry barracks, 
and the accommodation, therefore, is what one 
would expect in English barracks, and quite suit- 
able for soldiers. 

The rooms are comfortable; there is a small 
stove with coal provided, and the furniture con- 
sists of camp-beds with two blankets each, a 
chest of drawers and a small table and chair- 
Some of the rooms contain as many as seven beds, 
but the rooms are fairly large and do not appear 
to be overcrowded. 

Doctor Pohlmann told us that the camp 
boasted, among other attractions, a billiard-room. 
Probably he was right, but he must have forgot- 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

ten to add that there was no billiard-table or 
other article of furniture in it. 

A large room was set aside for the British pris- 
oners, and another for the Russian prisoners; these 
were furnished at the prisoners' expense with a 
piano and card-tables, and used as anterooms. 
The British anteroom, however, never seemed 
popular, as the officers preferred their own living- 
rooms, which were warmer. 

The French had no anteroom, although I think 
they could have secured one had they desired it. 

There were about 250 prisoners in the build- 
ing, about 200 of whom were Russian and French. 

There was a canteen, where almost everything 
but food could be obtained. The beer was not 
bad, and fairly cheap; but the only other drinks 
obtainable were a yellow fluid and a reddish fluid, 
which was given by the canteen manager the 
humorous description of sherry and port wine. 

He was a wise man, that canteen manager, for 
under what strategical device could he have ex- 
tracted one mark per glass from his customers, 
and at the same time supply a "have another" 
atmosphere to his establishment ? But he was a 
good fellow, and added greatly to the comfort 

204 



OSNABRUCK 

of the officers (and to the comfort of his own 
banking-account) . 

You could buy anything from him (except food), 
from a toothpick (which he never caused us to 
need) to a grand piano (which he did not keep 
in stock). 

He would purchase on commission, and the 
latter part of the purchase he gave particular 
attention to. But he sought custom, and it made 
him civil and obliging. He would supply you 
with a kettle of boiling water for 5 pfennigs; or, 
for a larger consideration, would cook the pheas- 
ant which came in your last parcel. 

The grounds outside the building were very 
small, although just before I left a field was 
thrown open, where the officers could kick a ball 
about. There were also two tennis-courts built 
by the officers. 

The picture does not seem an unpleasant one; 
and I do not think the officers imprisoned there 
ever complain of their treatment. But if it were 
a marble palace, that would not alter the fact 
that it was a prisoners' camp; and two hours was 
about as long as anybody would stay without 
being bored. 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

If the description I have given leaves the im- 
pression that the prisoners have a good time in 
such seclusion, a stroll around the building a few 
times, avoiding the barbed wire; or a few nights' 
sleep disturbed by the frequent challenge of the 
sentry and the barking of the watch-dogs would 
disillusion them, and make them realise what it 
means to feel the strong fetters of captivity. 

In England we treat German officers very 
liberally; and if we ever allow this to arouse our 
indignation, we should pause to remember that 
this generous treatment has induced the German 
authorities to grant favours to British officers. 

Our officers, for instance, on signing a parole, 
are allowed once or twice each week to go for a 
long country walk in company with only one 
German officer; and this privilege is at any rate 
worth an equal amount of consideration being 
shown towards the German officers in England. 

A medical officer is present each morning, and 
if it is necessary to attend hospital, or the dentist, 
or if you have permission to go down for any 
other purpose, you are allowed the privilege of 
hiring a conveyance for what the cabby probably 
flatters himself is a moderate charge; but if you 

206 



OSNABRUCK 

do not wish to pay for this privilege, you can walk 
— in the gutter. 

The dentist was not a popular man to visit, 
although a prisoner is often tempted to sacrifice 
a tooth in order to enjoy the privilege of a ride 
down-town. But he was apt to use his profes- 
sional skill as an instrument to his patriotic 
ardour, and appeared to aspire to the removal 
of the jaw instead of the tooth. 

During the time I was at Osnabruck, there was 
a good commandant in charge. He was a gentle- 
man, fair-minded, and considerate, notwithstand- 
ing the fact that he was a professional soldier 
of the old school. 

When I speak of the old school, it leads me to 
express an opinion that the brutalities perpe- 
trated upon our soldiers who fell into their hands 
in the early part of the war were due to profes- 
sional military hatred more than to popular 
intention. At the commencement of the war, the 
professional German soldier seemed to be imbued 
with the sole idea, which was no doubt fostered 
by the system of training, to get to England, 
and satisfy his hunger by murder and pillage; 
and the first prisoners who saved the people of 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

this country by their heroic self-sacrifice received 
the first experience of their intentions. 

My contention is borne out by the fact that 
these brutalities are not practised to-day in any- 
thing like the same degree, for the old army has 
become more or less extinct, and a new army of 
civilians has taken its place. With the exception, 
perhaps, of certain elements of the higher com- 
mands, there is a decreasing element of the "top 
dog" spirit, and an undercurrent of feeling that 
it may not be wise to be too overbearing. 

To-day it is the German civilian fighting the 
British civilian, and the German who has a home, 
family, and business has not the same hatred as 
his professional predecessor. 

The German professional soldier is unapproach- 
able; but the German civilian soldiers seemed 
reasonable and anxious for peace, and even to 
deplore the domineering authority which com- 
pelled him to take up arms. 

At Osnabruck the roll-call was made by the 
officers simply parading outside of their re- 
spective rooms and coming to the salute as the 
German officer passed him, and he, in passing by, 
would answer the salute. The morning roll-call 

208 



OSNABRUCK 

was at 9 a. m., so at one minute to nine it was 
necessary to tumble out of bed. 

The curious raiment frequently donned more 
with a view to speed than dignity prompted an 
order being issued that officers should parade fully 
dressed. The ingenuity of the British soldier, 
however, could soon overcome a requirement of 
this kind. One minute to nine still prevailed, 
but the wearing of overcoats for early morning 
roll-call grew in popularity. 

I was very much impressed with the fair and 
systematic handling of our parcels, letters, and 
money; and even letters and post-cards which 
arrived for me after I had been sent back to Eng- 
land were readdressed and sent back. A remit- 
tance of five pounds, which arrived for me after 
I had left was even returned to me in England, 
instead of being applied to the pressing need of 
the German War Loan. 

Letters are distributed each morning. Parcels 
arrive on Mondays and Thursdays, and a list is 
made out and sent round the same afternoon, 
from which each prisoner can ascertain the number 
of parcels awaiting him. He thereupon appears 
at an appointed hour the following day to receive 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

his parcels, which are opened by the German 
censor in his presence. 

All tin food has to be opened, but if it is not 
required for immediate consumption, it is placed 
unopened in a locker, and he can draw what he 
requires on any day he wishes to use it. 

The American Express Company was permitted 
to cash officers' cheques through the paymaster, 
who kept a proper account of the debits and 
credits against each prisoner; so that he could 
draw money at any time from the funds standing 
to his credit. These accounts were kept in a 
very businesslike manner, and a prisoner was per- 
mitted to go into the paymaster's office and 
examine his books whenever he wished. I know 
of at least one instance in which a prisoner had 
been permitted to overdraw his account. 

The prisoners spent most of their time at 
Osnabruck in playing tennis, football, walking up 
and down the yard, learning French or Russian, 
playing cards, or reading. 

The books which prisoners receive from time to 
time from England are passed round, thus form- 
ing a sort of circulating library. 

In living a life of this kind one cannot help but 
210 



OSNABRUCK 

develop the habits of school-days, and become 
boyish in many things. 

One lives for letters and parcels. It is not the 
length of letters or size of parcels which count so 
much as the number; and when the parcel list 
comes round, he is a lucky fellow who finds four 
or five parcels awaiting him, even though their 
total contents amount to no more than that of 
the man who receives a single parcel. 

On Tuesdays and Fridays the number of par- 
cels was an absorbing topic, and one would turn 
to another in schoolboy fashion, and say: 

"How many parcels have you got to-day?" 

"Only one — how many have you ?" 

"Six." 

"Lucky devil!" 

In each room the men throw their parcels into 
one mess, and share alike; and if a new prisoner 
arrives, who would not be receiving parcels, he 
shares with the others in his room. 

If several prisoners just arriving are put in a 
room by themselves, they do not, of course, fare 
so well, and until their parcels arrive, many weeks 
later, they are more or less dependent upon the 
food issued to them; although presents of food 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

are frequently sent in by the others, and articles 
of clothing are loaned. 

The charge made to the prisoners for food was 
forty-five marks per month. We were afterwards 
informed that by a new regulation the charge, 
by some international arrangement, had to be 
reduced to thirty marks per month. And the 
commandant explained that for this sum he could 
only supply the same ration which the men re- 
ceived; but would continue to supply the old 
ration if the officers would voluntarily agree to 
continue paying forty-five marks, and extra for 
their bread — which, of course, they did. 

This ration consisted of imitation coffee for 
breakfast and no food. A plate of washy stuff 
called soup, for dinner, followed by some sloppy 
mashed potatoes, and sometimes green stuff; and 
for supper, more sloppy potatoes. 

To satisfy one's hunger on a cold day with such 
food — which is only fit for pigs — can only be 
done by loosening the waistcoat, and half an 
b*)ur afterwards one feels as though he had never 
had a meal. 

Prisoners were allowed to receive as many 
letters as they were lucky enough to have sent 

212 



OSNABRUCK 

them; and there does not appear to be any re- 
striction as to the length of the letter. 

They are allowed to write two letters of four 
pages each, and four post -cards each month. All 
letters are censored by a staff of censors in the 
camp. Outgoing letters and post-cards are held 
for ten days, with a view of ascertaining, I be- 
lieve, whether invisible ink had been used. 

News arrives in the camp principally by the 
arrival of new prisoners, who are kept in quar- 
antine for about ten days. 

German official bulletins are posted in the 
anteroom; and the Continental News, which is 
published in the English language, or rather dis- 
graces the English language by using it, is deliv- 
ered daily. By the bye, the Continental News is 
a rag of the worst kind, and contains lies of the 
worst description. 

My orderly came to me one day, and after 
carefully closing the door, he drew from under 
his tunic a few scraps of an English newspaper a 
month old. 

We devoured the news eagerly, as well as the 
advertisements, and passed it quietly around to 
the other officers. 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

He had been sweeping up the canteen after the 
censor had finished opening up the parcels. One 
parcel had been wrapped up in the newspaper, 
and unthinkingly the censor overlooked it, and 
tore the paper into fragments and threw it on the 
floor. 

My orderly, while sweeping, noticed the pieces 
on the floor. The censor was in the room, and 
he went on sweeping until, when the censor's 
head was turned, he stooped and, snatching it 
up, stuffed it into his tunic. 



214 



CHAPTER XXX 
COMEDY AND DRAMA 

I SALUTE THE WALL. THE STORY OF AN EGG. 

A NOVEL BANQUET. JOY RIDE ON A LORRY. 

THE SWISS COMMISSION 

TIT'HEN I arrived at Osnabruck, I found three 
English orderlies, and to my surprise and 
delight, two were men of my own regiment who 
had been captured at Gommecourt Wood on 
July i. 

The commandant came up to visit me the fol- 
lowing morning, something very unusual; but 
no blind prisoner had ever been confined within 
the walls of Osnabruck before, and I suppose I 
was an object of interest. 

I heard Rogan say, "Commandant," and click 
his heels. 

I stood up and saluted. I was turned around, 
for, unknowingly, I had gravely saluted the wall. 

He spoke fairly good English: 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"You quite blind?" 

"Yes, quite." 

"See no light — nothing, no ?" 

"Nothing whatever." 

"Your health, vot, is your health goot — yah ? " 

"Very weak and shaky; I cannot sleep at 
night." 

"Is there anything you want ?" 

"There are two orderlies here from my own 
regiment. Can I have one as my personal at- 
tendant ? Otherwise I am helpless ; I am not 
yet accustomed to blindness, and among so many 
people and in strange surroundings, I shall be- 
come a nuisance." 

"Yah; I will make arrangements." 

That was how I came to get Private Cotton 
as my orderly. Cotton was a fine lad; a well- 
educated, superior type of fellow, and we became 
very much attached to each other during those 
long, dreary days. 

He could speak French, and although he could 
speak no German, he possessed that wonderful 
faculty peculiar to the private soldier, of under- 
standing and making himself understood in a 
language he did not know. 

216 



COMEDY AND DRAMA 

He had been a civil servant in the War Office; 
but in the early part of the war had volunteered 
his services with the colours, and fought night and 
day in the trenches for a shilling a day; while 
the young man who took his place in the War 
Office drew one and sixpence an hour overtime 
after 4 o'clock. Yet Cotton never complained. 
But his duty was the other man's opportunity. 

As I write these lines Cotton is still a prisoner. 
I wonder if the other man is still drawing over- 
time, and wearing a war-service badge ? 

Now Cotton was a gentleman both by birth 
and education; but he was a private soldier, and 
seemed to make a hobby of being one. He was 
a private, and I was a captain, and he insisted 
on that gulf being maintained. 

Whenever he bade me good-night, after he 
had laid me in my bed and made me some cocoa 
— generally from his own supplies, for my par- 
cels went astray — I could always hear him click 
his heels, and I knew he had saluted. 

The second day after I had arrived at Osna- 
bruck, he took me for exercise up and down the 
yard outside the canteen. This was my first 
appearance, and I was evidently an object of 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

some curiosity, for wind had got round the camp 
that a blind prisoner had been brought in. 

As the French officers passed me, I used to 
hear them say: "Good morning, Capitaine," or 
"Bon jour, mon camarade." 

The English officers were splendid and always 
anxious to help me, and many a welcome supper 
of cocoa and cake I used to have in their rooms 
before going to bed. 

I am afraid, though, that I used to make rather 
a big meal of it, as for the first two weeks I had 
to exist on the German rations. 

When I took my first walk in the yard the can- 
teen manager, his wife, and daughter were evi- 
dently watching out for me; for by and by, as 
a sign of their good-will, the daughter came run- 
ning out after me with a present. It was an 

egg! 

Cotton and I had a serious talk about this 
egg. He thought I should save it, and have half 
for supper and half for breakfast; but I settled 
the matter by eating it at once. 

I think I have forgotten to mention that we 
were allowed to buy for half a mark, a loaf of 
bread every five days. I had no idea how far 

218 



COMEDY AND DRAMA 

a loaf would go; I had never before given it a 
thought. 

But Cotton had it down to a science; and 
worked it out that two small slices for breakfast, 
and the same for supper would carry me through, 
and he kept me to it. 

"Cotton," I would say, after I had breakfasted 
on the two slices, "I could eat another slice." 

"Better not, sir." 

"Why not, Cotton ? It's my loaf." 

"This is the fourth day, sir, and if you have 
another slice, there will only be a small piece of 
crust for to-morrow's breakfast." 

"All right, Cotton, I will sleep to dinner-time 
instead." 

It was a joyful day when my first parcels ar- 
rived in camp. I was too excited about it to eat 
alone that day; and I invited young Martell of 
the R. N. A. S. to come and dine with me in my 
room. 

There was a tin of soup and a tin of tripe and 
onions, and some biscuits and cheese. What a 
banquet ! Martell and I decided to do ourselves 
in style. We even went so far as to send Cotton 
to the canteen for two glasses of what we in- 

219 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

diligently patronised the canteen manager's hu- 
mour by calling port wine. 

Martell cooked the tripe and onions, after 
opening the tin with his penknife, and boiled it 
on the stove. The more we thought of that 
meal, the more we schemed to make a spread 
of it. 

Cotton, too, rose to the occasion. From the 
canteen he obtained a sheet of white paper for a 
table-cloth, and by the side of each plate he 
placed a clean white handkerchief for servi- 
ettes. 

The table was just a little rough, wooden one, 
about two feet square. The room was swept and 
the beds made to give the room a tidy appear- 
ance, and then we sat down. 

Yes, Cotton understood. He knew that that 
meal was taking our thoughts back to England. 
It was taking him back, too. He knew that we 
imagined we were back again in the mess; and 
he imagined the same thing himself. 

In that little room, and in the presence of that 
tin of tripe and onions we forget we were pris- 
oners; we forgot that rows and rows of barbed 
wire bound us in captivity; we ignored the foot- 

220 



COMEDY AND DRAMA 

steps of the sentry pacing up and down outside 
our window, and the sharp yelping of the dogs. 

We were back in the mess, and we chatted and 
laughed during the meal as we had done in the 
old days, while our spirits rose with the aroma of 
the tripe and onion; and Cotton stood behind 
me silent and attentive, removing the plates, 
washing them, and replacing them ready for the 
next course, pretending he was drawing plates 
from a well-filled pantry. 

We finished our repast with biscuits and 
cheese, and then we solemnly stood, and raising 
our glasses, toasted the King. 

Then we drew our chairs round the fire, and 
heating the coffee which was left over from break- 
fast, we bathed our thoughts in the aroma of two 
cigars which Cotton had thoughtfully provided 
for the occasion from the canteen. 

Yes, people of England, living at home in 
luxury, by the protection of a thin line of khaki; 
when you become anxious at the prospect of one 
meatless day per week, try living for a fortnight 
on slops, and then appreciate the glories of a tin 
of tripe and onions. 

Still, one can live on slops, and improve a meal 
221 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

by a vivid imagination. In fact, imagination is 
a distinct advantage when sitting down hungrily 
to a plate of thin watery soup and sloppy potatoes 
for dinner. 

When the door used to open and Cotton ap- 
peared with this unsavoury repast, which was 
always the same each day, I would say to him in 
the most indifferent tone I could assume: 

''Well, Cotton, what kind of soup is it to-day ?" 

"Well, sir; I really don't know. It might be 
anything; it looks like hot water." 

"Why, my dear Cotton, this soup is salt. 
How dull you are ! There must have been a bat- 
tle in the North Sea!" 

"How do you know that, sir?" 

"It's the way the Germans have. This soup 
is hot sea- water; it is to celebrate a victory." 

The next day there would be a slight difference 
in the soup, and again Cotton would gravely 
shake his head, unable to fathom its mystery. 

"My dear Cotton, when will you learn to 
gather information from your rations by a method 
of deduction?" 

"Has there been another battle in the North 
Sea, sir?" 

222 



COMEDY AND DRAMA 

"No, my dear Cotton, the soup is thicker; the 
German fleet is back in the Kiel Canal." 

It was the beginning of the third week of my 
sojourn in Osnabruck, when I was told one day 
that I was to proceed next morning to Blenhorst 
camp to appear before the Swiss Commission. 
Three other officers were also to go, including 
Rogan. 

Cotton was to accompany me, and we made 
great preparation for the journey, packing in a 
tin box biscuits and cheese, chocolate and sar- 
dines; for although an officer is charged just the 
same for his full day's ration, the Germans have 
a habit of sending him on a long day's journey 
without food. 

We started off at about 6 o'clock the next 
morning in high glee; for whatever the result of 
the Swiss Commission might be, there was the 
journey to Blenhorst to break the monotony of 
Osnabruck. 

We had to change trains several times, and in 
the station restaurants we had much the same 
experience as I have described on my journey 
from Hanover. 

In one restaurant we could only obtain a slice 
223 



RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

of ham as thin as tissue-paper, and in another a 
very small sausage; and yet the German people 
we passed in the streets had no appearance of 
being short of food, or suffering any hardships in 
this respect. The people in the streets, I under- 
stand, looked just as contented and well fed as 
the people in England. 

The station for Blenhorst is about eight miles 
from the camp. A large flat, open lorry was 
sent to meet us to carry our baggage, but as our 
belongings were for the most part carried in our 
pockets, it was unnecessary for that purpose. 

It then dawned upon our two guards, who had 
no more desire to walk than we had, that we 
might ride on the lorry ourselves. They obtained 
a form to hold four, and we four officers occupied 
this seat on the open lorry, Cotton sitting on the 
floor, while the two guards sat together behind 
us, with their feet dangling over the side. 

That ride I shall never forget. Perhaps it 
was because I was blind that the situation seemed 
so ridiculously funny. The single-horsed lorry 
was pulled slowly through the rough, cobbled 
streets in sudden jerks, which sent our legs flying 
in the air, giving the form a tilt; and I expected 

224 



COMEDY AND DRAMA 

every minute that we would all four turn a double 
somersault over the heads of our guards behind, 
and fall into the road like clowns at a circus. 

Imagine the picture, an open lorry on a bitterly 
cold day going through the streets of a small 
German town with four British officers in uniform ; 
two with their heads bandaged, another with an 
arm in a sling, and a fourth with a lame leg, all 
sitting on a form, shivering with cold — all smok- 
ing cigars; while people came out and gazed in 
open-mouthed wonder at the strange spectacle; 
and a crowd of little urchins came running be- 
hind, yelling at the top of their voices. 

All this was explained to me ; and I imagined a 
great deal more, for the ridiculous situation could 
only be complete if a shower of rotten eggs were 
hurled at us as we passed by. 

The following morning the Swiss Commission 
arrived, and all those who wished to appear be- 
fore it were ordered to assemble in the yard. 

It was a pathetic assembly, officers and men 
maimed and afflicted beyond repair, waited in a 
long queue for their turn to go in and hear their 
fate. 

There were a number of Tommies acting as 
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orderlies in the camp who had been prisoners 
since Mons. There was nothing physically the 
matter with them; yet the silent and hopeful 
manner in which they took their position in the 
line, knowing as they must have done, that their 
chances were hopeless, was most pitiful to witness. 

Yet, the same men, on appearing before the 
Commission, and being immediately rejected, 
laughed and joked as they returned to their work. 

The British Tommy is heroic, and rough though 
his language sometimes is, he is a man, and 
Britain is his debtor. 



226 



CHAPTER XXXI 
FREE 

I BLUFF THE GERMAN SERGEANT. AACHEN. TWO 
BOTTLES OF WINE. ACROSS THE FRONTIER. 
GREAT SCOTT ! I AM CHARGED FOR MY OWN 
DEATH EXPENSES 

T WAS passed for England ! 

The Examination Board consisted of a 
Swiss doctor, a German doctor, and the camp 
commandant. The Swiss doctor was provided 
with a schedule of disablements under which pris- 
oners could be passed for exchange to their own 
country, and partial disablements for Switzer- 
land, and frequently objections to a prisoner's 
application would be made by the German rep- 
resentative. 

Of our party from Osnabruck, one was rejected, 
two were passed for Switzerland, and I was passed 
for England. 

The decision of the Swiss Commission is not 
final, for, on being sent to the border, all prison- 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

ers are again examined — this time by German 
doctors only — and by their decision prisoners 
are frequently rejected and sent back to camp. 

The final examination for those going to Swit- 
zerland takes place at Konstanz, and for those 
going to England, at Aachen. 

I knew of one British Tommy who, during 
eighteen months had been twice passed for Eng- 
land and once for Switzerland, and each time 
rejected at the border, and he is to-day still in 
Germany. 

It was about two weeks after I had been passed 
by the Swiss Commission that a German non- 
commissioned officer came to my room, and told 
me that I was to leave at 4 a. m. the next morn- 
ing for England. 

I had waited for this moment for three long 
months; I had no occupation of any kind, and 
spent most of my time lying on my bed or sitting 
on an uncomfortable chair before the fire, in 
hourly expectation of the door opening to tell 
me of my freedom. 

Permission had been granted me to take Cot- 
ton with me to the border, so we packed all the 
food we had in stock and prepared for the jour- 

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FREE 

ney. After travelling for some hours, we ar- 
rived at Hameln camp, where we were to stay the 
night. There was no accommodation for officers 
in the camp, and they apparently did not know 
what to do with me, or how to provide me with 
food, as they had never been called upon before 
to take charge of an officer. 

The only spare hut was some distance down 
the road, but as this was outside the camp, a 
special guard had to be mounted outside my 
door. The question of feeding me was evidently 
found to be rather a perplexing one, and a German 
N. C. O., who could speak English, came to see 
me about it. 

"You do not get the same rations at Osna- 
bruck as private soldiers ? No ?" 

I saw an opportunity and took it. 

"No, special food is always provided for offi- 
cers." 

"What do you usually get ?" 

"Meat, vegetables, pudding or fruit, and 
coffee." 

"Zo! But how much do you get? Do you 
get all that ? 

"Yes. As much as we like to pay for." 
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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

"But the money. How do you pay ?" 

"Oh, I will pay cash before I leave." 

"Goot. I will send you a dinner." 

"By the way, what about my orderly? Bring 
in the same for him." 

"Is dot usual? I vill gif him rations mit der 
men." 

"That's against regulations in Osnabruck. 
Officers pay for their orderlies' food. Bring him 
the same as me. By the way, sausages and coffee 
for breakfast for both." 

The meals were excellent, and I was glad we were 
moved off next day before the commandant came 
back to discover that I had bluffed the sergeant. 

At the end of the following day we arrived in 
Aachen, and again, being the only officer, the 
difficulty arose about my accommodation. 

This time I was placed in a real hospital which 
was used for German officers, and the accommoda- 
tion was quite as good as I would expect in Eng- 
land. There were six nurses in this hospital, 
kind and generous in their treatment, and they 
fed me with every delicacy they could find, and 
waited upon me hand and foot. 

Cotton was ordered to return to Osnabruck, 
23,0 



FREE 

and was replaced by a German orderly. An armed 
guard was placed outside my bedroom door, day 
and night, and whenever I took exercise in the 
garden, I could hear his footsteps behind me, 
following me wherever I went, and spitting on the 
ground every two or three yards. 

On the second day after my arrival, I went for 
my final examination, and the medical officer told 
me he would send his sergeant-major, who could 
speak good English, to have a talk with me that 
evening. What did that mean ? Why should 
he want to talk to me ? I became suspicious and 
awaited his coming with some uneasiness. 

He arrived about 7 o'clock that evening, bring- 
ing a friend and two bottles of wine. They 
opened the wine and we smoked together. Con- 
versation was going to be very difficult. I felt 
I was going to be pumped for information. 

It was going to be a battle of wits — I could 
feel it in my veins. 

I made up my mind to be pleasant and tact- 
ful and meet every question by asking one. 

As a matter of fact, I was mistaken. They were 
Germans who had lived in England and worked 
at the Deutsche Bank in George Yard, Lombard 

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RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 

Street, until war broke out, and had lived in High- 
bury. I soon found out that they were not bad 
fellows at all, although their opening conversa- 
tion did put my back up, and make me suspicious. 

"London must be full of soldiers?" 

I replied cautiously: 

"Well, I suppose the big cities, London, Paris, 
Berlin, Vienna, must all be full of soldiers these 
days." 

"But what do the English people really think 
about the cause of the war ?" 

"Well," I replied evasively, "it's difficult to 
say, because people in England who talk, don't 
think; and people who think, don't talk." 

"Well, do you think when the war is over there 
will be any hard feeling? Do you think things 
will settle down, and we shall be able to live there 
again as we did before ?" 

"Well, that depends upon the people's feelings 
after the war." 

"You know, we cannot understand the English 
people; you are very hard to understand, the 
way you do things." 

"How so?" 

"Well, look at the way you have got your 
232 



FREE 

army together. It's marvellous; we all admit 
it. It surprised us. 

"Look at your colonies. We thought Canada 
and Australia would break away; or at the very 
best, would not send over more than about 
50,000 men. 

"But what we cannot understand is why a 
country which can organise and handle such an 
enormous army, is unable to manage its civilian 
population." 

"In what way do you mean?" 

"Well, look at Ireland; fancy allowing that 
sort of thing ! And the strikes you have ! You 
build an army, and then allow your people to 
hinder it by striking." 

"How can you help it ?" 

"You don't find strikes in Germany, because 
we organise our civil population for war, as well 
as the military population. 

"There was one strike a little while ago, not 
for more money, but because the men felt they 
were not getting the food they were entitled to. 
Do you know what we did ? — We put them all 
in uniform, and sent them on to the Somme, 
and we sent back from the Somme an equal 

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number of soldiers to replace them in the fac- 
tory." 

"When do you think the war will be over?" I 
asked. 

"When each side realises that it can't exter- 
minate the other. Look what we've done on the 
Somme ! You've lost, let us say, 700,000 men, 
and we have lost, say 500,000; and how far have 
you got ? You'll never beat us. If you bend us 
back more, all we shall have to do is to retire to 
a new line, and you will have to begin your work 
all over again. You can bend, but you can't 
break us." 

"Well, you tried it, and now it's our turn." 

"Yes; but it will never end that way. Do you 
know that for months past we've been digging a 
new line, a straight line between Lille and Ver- 
dun, which will shorten our line by half ? And if 
you bend that we will build another farther back. 
It can go on for ever at that rate." 

"What about the blockade?" 

"Of course, that's a farce. You've been doing 
your best to starve us for over two years. Do 
I look starved ? We may not get as good food 
as we should like, but we get enough to live on, 

234 



FREE 

because we've got it properly systemised ; whereas 
you let your people eat what they like." 

Yes, there was truth in that; and after drink- 
ing all his wine, I turned into bed; for to-morrow 
I was to be free ! 

At 7 o'clock on the following evening motor- 
cars, each with two trailers, went towards the 
station, filled with totally disabled soldiers, en 
route for England. 

Even their captors thought it was not worth 
while to keep them. 

War is a monstrous machine of the devil. At 
one end the manhood of Britain was pouring 
into its fiery cauldron; and here at the other 
end the devil was raking out the cinders. 

My story is drawing to a close. 

The hospital-train, bearing its human freight, 
passed through Namur, Liege, Brussels, and Ant- 
werp to the Dutch frontier. 

All who could do so looked eagerly out of the 
window for the moment when they would pass 
into freedom. 

The train stopped at a small station right on 
the frontier, and some formalities were gone 
through. It started again — there was a German 

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sentry — there was a Dutch sentry — we were 
over. Hurrah ! ! ! 

Cheer after cheer rang out from that long line 
of prostrate men. 

The train pulled up at a little station just 
across the border. The door of my carriage was 
flung open and a number of Dutch girls came to 
my bed, and a shower of things came tumbling 
all about me as they passed one after the other, 
saying : 

"Cigarettes, pleeze; apple, pleeze; cigar, pleeze; 
cake, pleeze; sweets, pleeze " 

I was in heaven. 

My story is told. 

I am back in my own home now; and as I 
conclude this record the postman brings me a 
letter. It is from my solicitors; I have torn it 
open, and find an account. The irony of fate 
closes the chapter: 

"To services rendered in connection with the 
death of Captain Nobbs!" 



236 



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